GIFT  or 

Dr.   Horace  Ivie 


0  \ 


„^,^i^- 


/ 


THE 

HUNDRED  DIALOGUES, 

NEW  AND  ORIGINAL; 

DESIGNED 

FOR  READING  AND  EXHIBITION 

IN 

SCHOOLS,  ACADEMIES, 

AND 

PRIVATE  cmdLtes,         "; 

WILLIAM  BENTLEY  FOWLE,       ' 

A-Uthor  of  Familiar  Dialogues;   The  Common  School  Speaker 

The  Primary  Reader;  The  Bible  Reader, 

and  other  School  Books. 


BOSTON: 
SAMUEL     F.     NICHOLS, 

NO.     43    WASHINGTON     STREET. 
NEW  YORK;  COLLINS  &  BRO.,  lOG  LEONARD  STREET. 


Gm0F 

llortljeiiVs    ^locutionarji  Series, 

NORTHEND'S    LITTLE    SPEAKER— The  Little  Speaker  and 
and  Juvenile  Reader,  being  a  collection  of  pieces  in  Prose,  Poetry,  and 
Dialogue,  designed  for  exercises  in  speaking  and  occasional  reading  in 
Primary  Schools.  By  Charles  Northend,  A.M.   18mo.  Price  30  cents. 
This  little  work  is  a  judicious  selection  of  simple  and  instructive  pieces 
for  the  use  of  beginners  in  the  study  of  elocution.     It  has  been  the  com- 
piler's aim  to  adapt  the  work  to  the  capacities  of  children,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  have  the  matter  such  as  will  make  the  proper  moral  im- 
pression. 

NORTHEND'S     AMERICAN      SPEAKER.-The   American 
Speaker ;  being  a  collection  of  pieces  in  Prose,  Poetry,  and  Dialogue, 
designed  for  exercises  in  Declamation  in  Schools.  By  Charles  Xortu- 
END.     Improved  edition.     12mo.    Price  75  cents. 
In  this  volume  will  be  found  such  variety  as  will  tend  to  meet  the 
wants  of  teachers  and  pupils,  to  whom  it  is  commended,  with  the  hope 
that  it  may  prove  a  valuable  and  pleasant  aid,  and  tend  to  give  import- 
ance and  interest  to  the  subject  of  declamation. 

NORTHEND'S     SCHOOL      DIALOGTJES.-School    Dialogues; 

comprising  one  hunured  and  one  selections,  particularly  adapted  to  tlie 

use  of  schools.    By  Charles  Northbnd.   Twentieth  edition,  enlarged. 

12  mo.     Price  75  cents. 

The  success  of  the  "  American  Speaker"  has  induced  the  author  to 
prepare  this  volume,  which  has  been  very  favorably  received.  It  con- 
tains -selections  eminently  adaoted  to  cultivate  the  elocutionary  powers 
of  the' student.       •       .'  :  ••  '    •* 


la:cl|fls-.%rciker* 


THE  NEW  AMERICAN  SPEAKER ;  a  collection  of  Oratorical 
and  Dramatic  pieces.  Soliloquies  and  Dialogues,  with  an  original  in- 
troductory essay  on  the  Elements  of  Elocution,  desitned  for  the  use  of 
Schools,  Academies,  and  Colleges.  By  J.  C.  Zacho,  A.M.  12mo 
Price,  $1. 

"  This  is  a  work  which,  for  the  pnrpoae,  has  no  superior.  The  selections  apppur 
to  us  tasteful  and  elegant.  They  are  certainly  made' from  authors  of  the  highest 
classical  reputation.  Copious  in  matter,  tasteful  in  style,  and  clearly  and  hand- 
Vfnely  printed,  it  is  a  book,  we  apprehend,  that  will  supersede  all  others  in  tlie  class 
•  1  d  exhibition  room,  and  become  a  general  favorite  both  with  teachers  and  students." 
\iiterary  Advertiser. 

Copies  of  any  of  the  above  mailed  post-paid  on  receipt  of  price. 

COLLINS  &  BROTHER,  Publishers, 

No.  82  Warren  Street,  New  York. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1854, 
Bt    MARIA    ANTOINETTE    FOWLE, 
In  the  Clerk's  Offlcft  of  the  District  Court  of  tJ<fi  District  of  Massachusetto. 
6:OUCATION  DEPT 


PREFACE. 


The  scarcity  of  scenes,  suitable  for  School  Dialogues,  ia  our  stand- 
ard Dramatic  writers,  and  the  almost  entire  neglect  of  this  depart- 
ment by  literary  men.,  would  imply  that  there  is  a  difficulty  in  the 
subject,  and  this,  the  author  hopes,  will  secure  to  him  an  unusual 
measure  of  indulgence,  should  this  attempt  not  prove  to  be  all  that  is 
desired. 

Grateful  for  the  favor  which  has  been  shown  to  his  former  efforts, 
the  author  regrets  that  he  has  reason  to  complain  of  so  many  compi- 
lers of  school  books,  who,  without  the  ceremony  of  a  request,  or  the 
poor  remuneration  of  an  acknowledgment,  have  appropriated  to  them- 
selves a  large  number  of  his  original  dialogues,  —  a  trespass  that  will 
not  again  be  excused. 

The  position  long  ago  assumed  by  the  author,  that  the  use  of  Fa- 
miliar Dialogues  is  the  best  means  of  introducing  a  natural  style  of 
reading,  has  been  confirmed  by  thirty  years'  experience,  and  he  be- 
lieves, that,  in  no  other  way  can  the  teacher  so  effectually  banish  that 
stiff  and  sometimes  ridiculous  mannerism,  which  prevails  in  too  many 
schools. 

It  is  a  pleasant  circumstance,  that,  as  this  book  is  intended  to  be  a 
supplement  to  other  works,  it  will  not  be  necessary  to  displace  any 
other  to  make  room  for  this.  It  was  the  intention  of  the  author  to 
print  just  a  hundred  dialogues,  and  hence  the  title  adopted  ;  but  it 
was  found  necessary  to  modify  the  original  design,  not,  however,  by 
reducing  the  number,  but  by  greatly  increasing  it.  All  the  pieces  in 
the  book  are  original,  and  all  but  seven  are  now  published  for  the  first 


924180 


IV 

time  in  any  school  book  ;  and  even  these  seven  will,  it  is  hoped,  be 
found  improved  by  the  revision  they  have  undergone. 

In  arranging  the  Dialogues,  no  classification  of  subjects  has  been 
attempted,  and  no  order  of  arrangement,  except  that  most  of  the 
more  juvenile  pieces  are  at  the  beginning,  and  the  few  pieces  that 
have  been  published  in  the  author's  former  works,  are  at  the  end  of 
the  volume.  The  Index  gives  the  order  of  the  pieces  as  they  stand  in 
the  book,  and,  perhaps,  a  perfect  classification,  were  such  a  thing 
possible,  would  not  better  facilitate  the  finding  of  any  particular 
piece. 

It  is  believed  that  the  book,  as  a  whole,  has  amoral  and  reformatory 
bearing  that  will  commend  it  to  teachers  and  parents,  and  it  will  be 
the  author's  great  reward,  if,  while  providing  for  the  rational  and  in- 
nocent amusement  of  the  young,  ha  shall  haply  succeed  in  purifying 
and  elevating  the  minds  of  those  whom  he  may  have  amused. 

WM.  B.  FOWLE. 


INDEX 

TO 

FOWLE'S  HUNDRED  DIALOGUES. 


^o-  Pag« 

I.  The  Composition - 9 

II.  The  Sparrow,8 U 

III.  TheDoU 12 

IV.  The  Best  Sauce 14 

V.  The   Precocious  Speller 16 

YI.  Tardiness 17 

VII.  Doing  Nothing  is  Hard  Work 19 

VIII.  The  Right  of  Property 21 

IX.  Obedience 22 

X.  The  Hard  Lesson 24 

XI.  Punishment 26 

XII.  Fiction  and  Fact 28 

XIII.  SiUy  Billy 29 

XIV.  The  Litde  Beggar  Girl 32 

XV.  The  Pledge 33 

XVI.  Straining  at  the  Gnat 35 

XVn  All's  Well 36 

XVIII.  The  Fishing  Party 38 

XIX.  Filial  Duty 40 

XX.  What  is  Money 41 

XXI.  Wealth  is  not  Worth 43 

XXII.  Prompting 44 


VI 


No.  Paob. 

XXIII.        A  Mistake  no  Mistake ,• 47 

XXIV         Honor  and  Shame 48 

XXV.  The  Arithmetician 50 

XXVI.  The  Buds  of  Promise 52 

XXVII.  Playing  School .54 

XXVIII.  Bird  Catching 55 

XXIX  The  Ghost 57 

XXX  The  Collegian 59 

XXXI.  The  Perfect  Merchant 61 

XXXII.  The  New  School  House 63 

XXXIII.  The  Standing  Army 67 

XXXIV.  The  Boy  King 69 

XXXV.  The  Talents 72 

XXXVI.  The  School  of  the  World 75 

XXXVII.  The  Gossips .77 

XXXVIII.  The  Pioneer 80 

XXXIX.  Domestic  Grammar 82 

XL.  The  Party 84 

XLI.         The  King  and  the  Gardener  •  •  • 87 

XLII.         Aristides  the  Just 89 

XLIII.       The  Family  Tree 91 

XLIV.        Cramming  is  111  Feeding. 93 

XL  V.  War  versus  Gospel 95 

XL  VI.        Ambition's  Rest 97 

XL VI].        Young  America 99 

XL VIII.      The  Teacher  Tried 102 

XLIX.         The  Quaker  and  the  Robber 105 

L.  The  Indian,  or  Right  and  Might 108 

LI.  The  Turned  Head 1 10 

LIL  The  Well  of  St.  Keyne II3 

LIII.  Alexander  and  the  Scythian 115 

LiV.  Let  your  Yea  be  Yea 117 

LV.  The  Walking  Dictionary II9 

LVL  The  Bridal 122 

•"    L VII.         School  Discipline 125 

LVIII.        The  Two  Quacks 127 

LIX.  The  Marrying  Miser 130 

LX.  David  and  Goliath .134 

LXI.  Does  Learning  increase  Happiness? 136 


vu 


No.  1>A6«. 

LXIl.         TheGabbler 139 

LXl  JI         Poverty  and  crime 142 

LXIV.         The  Shooting  of  Young  Ideas 144 

LXV.         City  Sights  with  Country  Eyes 147 

LX\X         City  and  Country,  which  is  Best  ? 150 

LXVII         Worth  makes  the  Man 153 

LX  VIII.       The  Doctor  in  spite  of  Himself 158 

LXIX.         Regulus 160 

LXX.         The  Charm  of  Woman 162 

LXXI.        The  Poet  in  Search  of  a  Patron 166 

LXXII.        The  Rehearsal 108 

LXXIII.      TheBroken  Chain 174 

LXXI V.       The  Newsmonger 17(5 

LXXV.        Corporal  Punishment 178 

LXX  VI.       Manners  make  the  Man 181 

LXXVII.      Life  Insurance 183 

LXXVin.     The  Reformed  Wife 1S5 

LXXIX.       The  Two  Poets 189 

LXXX.        The  Hypochondriac 191 

LXXXL       William  Tell  and  the  Cap 195 

LXXXn.      The  Manly  Virtues 197 

LXXXIII.     Nathan  and  David 206 

LXXXIV.      Fashionable  Conversation 208 

LXXXV.      Scraping  Acquaintance 211 

LXXXVI.      John  Bull  and  Son 214 

LXXXVII.    Damon  and  Pythias 216 

LXXXVIII     Tobacco 219 

LXXXIX.     The  Story  Teller 221 

XC.  Love  and  Misanthropy 224 

XCI.  Never  too  Old  to  Learn 227 

XCII.         The  Pope  and  the  Indian 230 

XCIII.         Irish  Immigration 233 

XCIV.        Naturalization 235 

XC V.  The  Virtues  and  Graces 239 

XCVI.        The  Martyr 245 

XC VII.       Alexander  the  Great , .  -247 

XCVIII.      Sentimental  Charity 249 

XCIX.        The  Irish  Interpreter 252 

C.  The  Biter  Bit 253 


via 


No.  P/BK. 

CI.  The  True  Man's  Work  Never  Done 255 

CII.  The  Blue  Stockings 257 

cm.  The  Young  Poets 260 

•CIV.  The  School  Examination  •.•• 263 

CV.  Gentility,  What  is  it  ?  A  Discussion 269 

CVI.  William  Tell  and  the  Apple 278 

CVII.  The  Printer  and  the  Dutchman 280 

CVIII.        The  Yankee  in  France 282 

CIX.  Monsieur  and  his  English  Master 284 

ex.  The  Model  School 286 

CXI.  The  Lady  Maid 292 

CXII.         The  Will 294 

CXIII.         The  Haunch  of  Mutton 298 

CXIV.         I'll  Try,  or  the  Yankee  Marksman 300 

CXV.          The  Female  Exquisites •    -303 

CX  VI .  •       The  Gridiron 307 

CXVII.       TheLetter •••SlO 


FOWLE'S 

HUNDRED   DIAia'G'ltES 


B^  ake7i  ig  the  names,  and,  perhaps,  a  few  words,  these  IHch 
logues  may  be  made  to  suit  either  sex. 

I.     THE  COMPOSITION. 

MOrHER    AND    CHILD,    (oR,    BY     ALTERING  A  WORD    OR  TWO,)    A 
FATHER  AND  CHILD. 

Child.  Mother,  do  help  me  write  my  composition. 
The  teacher  says  I  must  write  one  before  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, and  I  am  sure  I  could  not  write  one  if  my  Ufe  de- 
pended on  it.  I  can't  do  it,  mother,  and  it  is  of  no  use  for 
me  to  try. 

Mother.     What  did  your  teacher  tell  you  to  write  about  ? 

C.  O,  she  said  we  might  write  upon  any  subject  we 
thought  of,  but  I  can  not  think  of  any  subject.  I  have 
not  one  idea  in  my  head. 

M.     Suppose  I  give  you  a  subject,  will  that  help  you  ? 

C.  O,  no,  mother ;  if  you  do,  I  shall  not  know  what 
to  say  about  it.     It  is  a  horrible  thing  to  write  composition. 

M.  What  makes  it  so  difficult?  Did  she  require  any 
particular  kind  of  composition  ? 

G.  Yes,  mother,  she  said  it  must  be  prose,  and  I  am 
sure  I  never  wrote  a  word  of  prose  in  my  life. 

M.     Why,  what  do  you  think  prose  to  be? 

C.  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  I  looked  in  the  diction- 
ary, and  that  said,  "  Prose  is  discourse  without  metre  oi 
poetic  measure,"  and  I'm  sure  I  didn't  know  then  so  well 
as  I  did  before,  for  I  thought  prose  was  the  opposite  of 
poetry. 

M.     Well,  what  is  poetry  ? 

C.     I  know  it  when  I  see  it,  but  I  never  saw  any  prose. 


10  fowie's  hundred  dialogues. 

M.     All  composition  that  is  not  poetry  must  be  prose. 
Do  you  talk  poetry  ? 
'  / '  p.     ]N^o/  kid^d,  jTiother,  I  wish  I  could. 

'M.    'If'y(JiX'dpn't'talk  poetry,  what  do  you  talk  ? 
,;  C;  ,^'}Ji  ?>iu^  I  dp]?'t  know.     I  didn't  know  I  talked 

'aii,y  .ihp'ig.;  ;  ^  ^ :  .','.  ^  ; 

M.  "What'di'd  1  tell  you  all  composition  must  be  that 
is  not  poetry  '^ 

C.  You  said  it  must  be  prose.  But,  then,  motJier,  you 
know  I  do  not  talk  composition,  for  that  i:^  what  they  put 
in  books.     I  thought  talk  was  only  conversation. 

M.  You  are  right,  it  is  conversation,  but  it  is  prose 
also. 

C.  Do  you  mean,  mother,  that  what  1  say  to  you  now 
IS  prose? 

M.  Certainly  it  is.  And,  if,  instead  of  speaking  your 
thoughts,  you  should  write  the  very  same  words  you 
would  speak,  that  would  be  prose  composition. 

C.  Why,  mother,  I  thought  composition  was  only 
what  we  read  in  books. 

M.  What  we  read  in  books  is  composition,  but  the 
greater  part  of  composition,  <»r  written  language,  is  never 
printed.  If,  instead  of  talking  together,  as  we  have  now 
done,  we  had  written  all  we  have  said  on  the  slate, 
what  we  wrote  would  be  a  composition  in  prose,  and  as 
it  is  in  the  form  of  a  conversation,  It  would  also  be  called 
a  dialogue. 

C.  Why,  mother,  is  that  all?  I'm  sure  I  did  not 
know  I  ever  spoke  a  word  of  composition  or  of  prose,  and 
I  never  dreamed  of  speaking  a  dialogue.  I'll  go  and 
write  down  all  we  have  said  together,  and  then  a  compo- 
sition will  not  prove  so  horrible  an  aiFair,  after  ail. 

M.  Do  so,  and  when  you  have  finished  your  prose 
composition,  or,  as  the  dictionary  calls  it,  your  "  discourse 
without  metre  or  poetic  measure,"  bring  it  to  me,  and  let 
me  see  whether  it  will  do  to  print. 

C.     O,  mother,  don't  make  fun  of  me. 

M.  My  dear,  if  nothing  but  wisdom  were  printed, 
there  would  be  few  books  in  the  world.  Come,  go  to 
work,  and  do  not  think  it  a  task  but  an  amusement,  and 
I  know  you  will  succeed. 


11 


11.    THE  SPARROWS..  ,  r  ;/. 

LITTLE  ELLEN  AND  HER  iVtP,THER,       ,   >»»  ,     ,  y>   > 

Ellen.  Mother,  what  are  these''  little'  mites  of  ])irds 
made  for  ?  They  are  too  small  to  be  eaten,  and  not  large 
enough  t  >  work. 

Mother.  They  may  as  well  ask  what  you  are  good  for 
Ellen ;  for  you  are  small,  and  not  fit  to  be  eaten,  and,  as 
they  earn  their  living,  they  must  work  harder  than  you 
do. 

£J.  Yes,  but  you  know  what  I  mean,  mother.  I  shall 
grow  up  one  of  these  days,  but  they  will  never  be  larger 
than  my  fist. 

M.  I  hope  you  will  live  to  grow  up,  though  this  is  by 
no  means  certain.  But  I  do  not  wish  to  evade  your  ques- 
tion. Though  the  little  birds  may  be  of  no  use  to  us,  we 
may  conclude  that  they  are  not  useless,  for  the  Creator 
has  a  design  in  every  thing  he  makes.  If  the  sparrows 
are  too  small  to  serve  as  food  for  man,  they  are  large 
enough  to  feed  many  creatures  smaller  tlian  man. 

E.  Then  other  creatures  eat  animals,  m'^ther?  O  yes, 
I  miglit  know  they  do,  for  I  saw  my  kitten  eating  a  little 
bird  that  she  or  her  mother  had  caught. 

M.     Do  not  the  little  birds  seem  to  be  happy  ? 

J5.  O  yes,  mother.  I  never  saw  such  happy  little 
things  ;  they  are  chirping,  or  flying,  or  playing,  all  the 
time. 

M.  Then,  perhaps,  they  were  made  to  be  happy.  Do 
you  like  to  see  the  little  things  ? 

J5      O  yes,  mother,  I  dearly  like  to  see  them. 

Jif.  Then,  perhaps,  they  were  also  made  to  contribute 
to  your  happiness.  Did  I  see  you  giving  them  some 
«rumbs  of  bread  just  now  ? 

B.  Yes,  mother,  the  snow  covers  the  ground,  and  I 
feared  the  little  things  would  starve  for  want  of  food. 

M.     And  you  helped  them  out  of  pity,  did  you  ? 

E.     Yes,  I  did,  mother.     Was  it  wrong  tc  do  so? 

M,     O  no,  my  d^ar  child,  and  I  presume  it  was  one  of 


12 


FOAVLE  S    HUNDRED     DTALOaUES. 


the  most  important  uses  of  their  creation  to  give  us  an 
.opportunity  to  culti^'^ate  our  benevolent  afiections.  You 
:wqttld  not  .hint  .fcl'te  Jittle  creatures,  would  you,  Ellen? 

'JE.  0,''n(>,  Vri()tfii.er,  I  would  do  any  thing  to  help  them. 
j  /iMl ;  *Th€!re  is  ijoth-ing  greater  than  charity,  and  any 
'cr&SitiJiTQ.%  hib)^eyoi:*.smalJ,  that  moves  us  to  kindness,  affec- 
tion, benevolence,  br'love,  which  are  only  other  names  for 
charity,  is  created  for  a  noble  purpose,  and  the  little  spar- 
rows have  not  been  made  in  vain,  if  they  have  excited 
tender  feelings  in  my  little  daughter's  bosom. 

£J.  (To  the  birds.)  O  you  dear  little  birdies,  how  could 
I  think  you  were  good  tor  nothing  because  you  were  not 
fit  to  eat  ?  I'll  go  and  get  some  more  bread  for  you  this 
minute,  and,  if  you  would  like  to  live  with  me  this  winter, 
I'll  board  you  for  nothing,  and  do  your  washing  gratis, 
just  as  I  do  my  little  Dolly's. 


III.    THE  DOLL. 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER. 


Child.  Mother,  I  wish  you  would  make  me  a  doll.  1 
want  one  dreadfully. 

Mother.  Why  do  you  wish  for  a  doll  ?  What  would 
you  do  with  one  ? 

G.     I  want  one  to  play  with. 

ilf.  But  a  doll  can  not  play  with  you.  I  should  think 
you  would  prefer  a  kitten,  for  that  can  understand  your 
play  and  play  back  again. 

O.  Yes,  mother,  and  it  can  scratch  and  bite  too.  Now 
a  doll  never  scratches  nor  bites,  and  I  like  a  doll  best. 

M.  You  can  teach  a  kitten  not  to  scratch  or  bite,  but 
you  can't  teach  a  doll  anything. 

C.     Can't  I  teach  it  to  sit  up,  or  to  hold  its  tongue  ? 

M.     No,  it  will  do  that  without  teaching. 

G.  O  dear,  I  wish  /could  do  so.  Miss  Teachura  tries 
to  make  me  sit  still  and  hqld  my  tongue,  ai^d  if  I  was  a 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  13 

doll  I  could  do  so  ;  but  I  am  not  a  doll,  and  it  is  hard 
work.  T  guess  she  wouldn't  like  to  sit  still  herself,  three 
hours  in  the  forenoon  and  three  hours  in  the  afternoon, 
merely  to  learn  to  be  a  doll. 

M.  You  must  not  speak  so  of  your  teacher.  But  I 
will  make  you  a  doll,  if  you  will  tell  me  how  it  will  be  of 
any  use  to  you. 

C     It  will  make  me  love  you  better,  dear  mother. 

M.  If  I  give  you  an  orange,  will  not  that  do  the 
same  ? 

C.  Why,  mother,  how  you  bother  me.  I  want  a  doll 
to  look  at,  to  hug,  and  to  kiss,  as  if  it  was  a  little  baby, 
but  I  do  not  hug  and  kiss  an  orange. 

M.     Do  you  think  you  could  love  a  little  doll  ? 

C.     O  yes,  I  am  sure  I  could,  if  it  was  pretty. 

M.  Does  my  loving  you  depend  upon  your  being  pret- 
ty ?     I  think  it  depends  more  upon  your  being  good 

C.  Well,  mother,  the  doll  is  always  good  as  can  be, 
but  I  am  sometimes  naughty. 

M.  The  doll  is  good  because  she  cau't  be  otherwise, 
and  there  is  no  merit  in  such  goodness.  To  be  really  good, 
you  must  not  only  not  do  wrong,  but  you  must  do  some- 
thing right.  Let  me  explain  what  I  have  said.  I  will 
make  you  a  doll  if  you  insist  upon  it,  but  my  opinion  is, 
that  you  will  like  it  much  better,  and  it  will  do  you  much 
more  good  if  you  make  it  yourself. 

C.     I  don't  know  how,  mother. 

M.     I  will  show  you. 

C.     Then  I  shall  be  glad  to  make  it  myself. 

M.  Though  you  may  not  make  it  so  well  as  I  could, 
at  first,  still  it  will  be  your  own,  and,  you  know,  mothers 
love  their  own  children  better  than  other  people's.  (Kiss- 
ing her.) 

C.  But,  mother,  why  did  you  wish  me  to  have  a  kit- 
ten instead  of  a  doll  ? 

M.  Because,  in  teaching  such  a  young  animal,  you 
would  learn,  much  yourself  that  you  couldn't  learn  from 
a  lifeless  doll. 

C.  What  would  the  kitten  teach  me,  reading  or  spell- 
ing, writing  or  needlework? 

M.     She  would  teach  you  kindness.     She  would  teach 


14  FOWLe's    HUNDUED    DIALOGTTES. 

yon  patience,  if  you  had  to  bear  with  her  ignorance ;  for- 
bearance, if  you  were  tried  by  her  ill  temper  ;  forgiveness, 
if  she  offended  you.  There  is  hardly  a  virtue  that  would 
not  be  improved,  if  you  treated  her  properly. 

C  Why  may  I  not  have  both  a  kitten  and  a  doll, 
then  ? 

M.  You  shall  do  so  ;  and  now  I  will  go  and  find 
something  to  make  the  doll  of,  while  you  go  and  get  your 
work-box,  for  the  best  time  to  do  work  is  while  you  are  in 
the  mood  for  it. 


IV.    THE  BEST  SAUCE. 

MOTHER  AND  SON. 

Boy.  Mother,  I  wish  you  would  give  me  something 
good  to  eat. 

Mother.  What  do  you  call  good  ?  there  is  bread  in  the 
closet. 

B.     I  am  tired  of  bread,  and  want  sometliing  better. 

M.     You  will  find  some  meat  in  the  pantry. 

B.     Mother,  I  am  sick  of  meat. 

M.     What  do  you  think  you  should  Hke  ? 

B      O  dear,  I  don't  know,  I  am  tired  of  every  thing. 

M.  It  is  not  so  much  the  kind  of  food  as  something 
else  you  want. 

B.     Something  elsel  why,  what  is  there  but  food  to  eat? 

M.  There  is  one  thing  far  more  necessary  than  food  to 
good  eating. 

B.  Well,  I  am  sure  I  do  not  see  how  that  can  be.  I 
have  food  and  every  thing  else,  and  yet  I  don't  see  any 
thing  that  tastes  good. 

M.     Johnny  Pinch  has  plenty  of  the  thing  you  want. 

B.  Why,  mother,  Johnny  Pinch  is  poor  as  death,  and 
how  can  he  have  what  I  have  not. 

M.  There  is  Johnny  coming.  You  may  ask  him  what 
it  is  that  he  has  and  you  have  not.     {Enter  Johnny.) 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  15 

B.  Johnny,  come  here!  Would  you  like  a  piece  of  cake 
to  eat  ? 

John.     I  guess  I  would. 

B.     Would  you  like  a  crust  of  bread  ? 

/.     1  guess  I  would  be  glad  of  it. 

B.     What  if  it  is  a  little  sour  or  mouldy  ? 

/.     No  matter,  I  guess  I  could  contrive  to  eat  it. 

B.  Johnny,  what  makes  you  willing  to  eat  a  crust  of 
Bour  bread  ? 

/.     I  can  not  always  get  any  thing  as  good  as  that. 

B.  Mother,  I  don't  see  what  it  is  that  Johnny  has. 
He  can  eat  what  I  would  not  touch,  but  I  don't  see  that 
he  has  any  thing  that  I  have  not.  I  have  as  good  teeth 
as  he  has. 

M.     Johnny,  what  do  you  do  in  the  morning  ? 

/.  I  get  up  at  sunrise,  Ma'am,  chop  wood,  feed  the 
cattle,  drive  the  cows  to  pasture,  and  churn  the  butter  be- 
fore breakfast. 

M.     What  do  you  do  after  breakfast  ? 

J.  I  do  a  number  of  chores,  then  walk  two  miles  to 
school  and  back  again,  and  then  chop  wood  again  till  din- 
ner. 

M.     Dinner  tastes  good  then,  does  it? 

/.  T  guess  it  does.  I  get  so  hungry  I  can  eat  any 
thing. 

M.  My  son  does  not  like  any  thing  we  give  him  to 
eat. 

B.  Mother,  if  I  can't  eat  cake  and  nioe  things,  I 
can't  eat  such  things  as  Johnny  does. 

M.  O,  yes,  you  can,  if  you  use  the  same  sauce  that 
Johnny  does. 

B.  Why,  mother,  Johnny  never  saw  any  sauce  in  his 
life! 

M.  O  yes,  he  has  the  two  best  sauces  in  the  world, 
Exercise  and  Hunger.     Is  it  not  so,  Johnny  ? 

/.  Yes,  Ma'am,  I  have  enough  of  both  to  spare  Mas- 
ter Frederic  a  httle,  if  he  wants  it. 

B.  Mother,  may  I  chop  wood  with  Johnny  to-morrow 
morning,  and  see  how  his  sauce  tastes  ? 

M.  Yes,,  you  may  try  the  experiment,  and  I  recom- 
mend to  you  to  eat  at  Johnny's  house  for  one  month,  and 
^o  to  school  with  him. 


16  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

B.     I'll  do  it  as  suie  as  I  live. 

M.  So  do;  and  as  soon  as  you  have  learned  to  make 
the  sauces,  you  shall  turn  doctor  and  go  about  curing  the 
dyspepsia,  which  is  caused  by  eating  without  these 
sauces. 


V.    THE  PRECOCIOUS  SPELLER. 

MR.    SMITH  AND  A  SMALL  BOY,    (oR  A  LITTLE  GIRL  WITH  A  BOY*S 

CAP  AND  COAT  ON,)  THE   BOY  BLOWING  A  PENNY   TRUMPET, 

AND  STRUTTING  POMPOUSLY. 

Mr.  Smith.     Who  are  you,  my  little  fellow  ? 

Boi/.  Not  so  very  little  neither;  I  go  to  man-school 
twice  a  day  when  it  does'nt  rain  and  school  keeps. 

Mr.  S.     You  do  ?     Well,  what  do  you  learn  at  school  ? 

Bo7/.     I  learn  to  spell  and  every  tiling. 

Mr.  S.     What  can  you  spell,  my  httle  mastodon? 

Boy.     Master  what  ?  My  name  is  not  Don.  D-o-n,  Don. 

Mr.  S.  Well,  no  matter  what  your  name  is,  tell  me 
what  you  can  spell. 

Bo2/.     I  can  spell /ace,  and  e7/e,  and  tooth. 

Mr.  S.     How  do  you  spell  face  ? 

Boy.     F-a-c-h,  face. 

Mr.  S.     Well  done  !  and  how  do  you  spell  eye? 

Boy.     You  ? 

Mr.   S.     Yes,  I.     How  do  you  spell  eye  ? 

Boy.  U,  I  tell  you.  I  guess  you  don't  know  how  to 
spell. 

Mr.  S.     Tell  me  how  you  spell  tooth,  then. 

Boy.    Too-oo-doo,  tooth.  There,  do  you  understand  that  ? 

Mr.  S.     O  yes,  you  are  a  wonderful  speller. 

Boy.  1  can  almost  spell  Massachusetts,  arid  I'm  at  the 
head  of  my  class  in  spelling. 

Mr.  S.     How  many  are  in  your  class  ? 

Boy.  Two,  me  and  another  girl,  and  she  was'nt  there 
to  day,  so  I  got  to  the  head. 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  17 

Mr.  S.     You  must  be  a  smart  scholar. 

Boy.  I  guess  I  am.  The  mistress  says  I  shall  te  a 
perfessor  one  of  these  days. 

Mr.  S.     A  professor  I     What  is  a  professoi  ? 

Boy.  I  don't  know,  I  suppose  it's  a  dancing-jack  or  a 
little  trumpet.     I  like  a  drum  best.     D-u-m-p,  drum. 

Mr.  S.  How  long  have  you  been  at  school,  my  little 
man  ? 

Boy.  How  long?  I  don't  know,  nine,  or  five,  or  six 
days.     One,  three,  two,  six.     I  study  'rethmetic,  too. 

Mr   S.     You  ought  to  study  Grammar  and  Pliilosophy. 

Boy.  I  know  gram'ma  already.  She  is  going  to  give 
me  a  wife  when  I  grow  up.  I  know  how  to  spell  wife ; 
w-h-i-p,  wife. 

Mr.  S.  You  will  soon  be  a  teacher  and  keep  school 
yourself. 

Boy.  I  mean  to.  I  could  teach  the  cat  now,  only  she 
can't  talk.     T-or-ec,  tork. 

Mr.  S.     You  beat  me  in  spelling. 

Boy.  I  guess  I  do.  B-e-lT,  beat.  (He  bhivs  a  penny 
trumpet.)  What  would  you  give  to  spell  like  I  do?  Can 
you  spell  your  name?  I  can  mine.  J-on,  John;  P-uf, 
Puff.     (He  marches  off  blowing  his  trumpet.) 


VI.    TAEDINESS. 


MARY  AND  ANNA. 

Mary.  Why  such  haste,  Anna?  there  is  no  need  of 
breaking  your  neck  merely  to  be  punctual  at  school. 

Anna.  T  do  not  intend  to  break  my  neck,  but  I  am 
determined,  if  possible,  not  to  break  the  rules  of  the 
scliool. 

Mary.  O  dear  I  I  can't  see  what  it  matters  whether  I 
am  there  a  few  minutes  sooner  or  later.  Mother  says  she 
don't  see  the  need  of  making  so  much  fuss  about  a  few 
minutes. 

8» 


|y  FOWLE  S    HLNDRKl)    DIALOGUES. 

Anna.  My  mother  tliinks  di/Ferently.  She  loves  to  see 
order  and  pniictuality  in  every  thing,  and  she  says  that 
such  things  form  an  important  part  of  character. 

Mary.  I  don't  see  what  going  to  school  a  minute 
sooner  or  later  has  to  do  with  character.  I  am  tardy 
almost  every  day,  but  I  am  sure  that  I  have  not  lied,  or 
cheated,  or  stolen  in  consequence  of  it. 

Anna.  Are  you  sure  of  that,  Mary.  You  know  other 
things  than  money  or  goods  may  be  stolen.  When  you 
come  late,  do  you  ever  lose  your  lessons  ? 

Mary.  No,  tlie  master  always  hears  my  recitations  in 
recess',=^  and  so  enal)]es  me  to  keep  up  with  the  class. 

Anna.  Does  he  not  lose  his  recess  by  thus  obliging 
you  ? 

Mary      To  be  sure  he  does,  but  what  of  that? 

Anna.  I  should  think  you  robbed  him  of  his  time.  He 
needs  recess',  as  much  as  we  do.  Do  you  not  like  recess', 
yourself? 

Mary.     Indeed  I  do,  but  I  often  gel  cheated  out  of  it. 

Anna.  You  cheat  yourself,  then ;  but  do  you  not  also 
cheat  the  school  by  tiring  the  teacher,  when  he  should  be 
gathering  strength  to  teach  them  after  recess  is  over? 

Mary.  You  have  proved  me  a  thief  and  a  cheat,  and 
it  only  remains  for  you  to  prove  me  a  liar. 

Anna.  I  have  no  wish  to  do  this,  Mary,  and  yet  I  dare 
say  you  have  sometimes  framed  excuses  for  tardiness, 
tliat  were  not  "the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing 
but  the  truth." 

Ma,ry  Well,  so  I  have,  Anna,  as  sure  as  you  live  ; 
but  I  never  thought  before  that  I  was  doing  wrong.  I 
declare  I  am  half  inclined  to  thmk  it  is  easier  to  be  punc- 
tual than  to  be  tardy,  and  if  you  will  call  for  me  as  you 
go  to  school,  I  will  always  be  ready  to  accompany  you. 

*  NoU.  Two  of  the  New  England  vulgar! -ims  are,  pronouncing 
re.czsz  ,  and  selectmen',  with  the  accent  on  the  iirst  syllable. 


IUWLe's    IIUNDRED    DIALOGUES.  19 


VII.   DOING  NOTHING  IS  HARD  WORK. 

MOTHER  .\ND  SON,  (oil,  BY  CHANGING  A  FEW  WORDS,)  A  MOTHER 
AND  DAUGHTER. 

Child.  O  dear,  how  tired  I  am,  motliter,  I  wish  I  was 
not  so  tired. 

Mother,  What  makes  you  so  tired  ?  Have  you  been 
running  ? 

C.     No,  mother,  I  have  not  run  or  walked  ten  steps. 

M.     What  then  ?     Have  you  been  playing  too  hard  ? 

C.  No,  mother,  I  have  not  played  at  all.  I  don't  like 
to  play. 

M.     Perhaps  you  have  been  working  in  the  garden  ? 

G.  O,  no  indeed  ;  if  I  can't  play,  I  am  sure  I  can't 
work. 

M.     Pray  tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing. 

C.     The  truth  is,  — I  have  been  doing  nothing. 

M.  O,  I  can  easily  understand  your  case.  There  is  no 
harder  work  than  doing  nothing,  though  so  many  think 
there  is  great  enjoyment  in  it. 

G.  Well,  mother.  I  sometimes  wish  I  was  a  poor  boy, 
that  I  might  always  have  something  to  do. 

M.     You  always  have  something  to  do^now. 

C  O  no,  mother,  every  thing  is  done  for  me  I  don't 
know  any  thing  but  eating  that  you  or  somebody  else  does 
not  do  for  me. 

M.     You  sleep  for  yourself,  don't  you  ? 

G.  O  yes,  I  forgot  that.  But  I  should  like  to  do 
something  more  than  eat  and  sleep.  I  should  like  to 
work. 

M.  You  lack  one  thing  that  is  very  important  to  all 
who  have  to  work. 

G.  What  is  that,  mother  ?  I  am  sure  I  have  two  hands 
as  good  as  any  boy's. 

M.     I  don't  mean  hands.     You  lack  something  else. 

G.  Is  it  strength,  mother?  I  am  sure  I  am  stouter 
than  Johnny  Buirt,  who  does  a  deal  of  work  every  day  of 
his  life. 


20 

M.  It  is  not  strength.  You  have  enough  of  that  for 
one  of  your  age. 

C,  Pray,  what  is  it,  then?  O,  I  know,  it  is  tools.  But 
I  have  some  tools.  Father  gave  me  a  little  wheelbarrow, 
and  uncle  gave  me  a  shovel,  and  you  yourself,  mother, 
gave  me  a  little  hoe. 

M.  Well,  you  have  hands,  and  strength,  and  tools, 
and  yet  you  lack  the  principal  thing. 

C.  What  can  it  be,  mother?  Do  tell  me,  because  I 
will  ask  father  to  get  it  for  me. 

M  He  can't  get  it  for  you.  You  must  get  it  for  your- 
self, or  never  have  it. 

C.     Well,  I'm  sure  this  is  a  puzzle,  and  I  give  it  up. 

M.  What  makes  Johnny  Burt  work,  as  you  say  he 
does  ? 

C.  O,  I  know,  it  is  necessity,  he  works  because  he 
must.     Johnny  is  poor. 

M.  Is  not  his  father  poor,  also  ?  and  is  it  not  his 
father's  laziness  that  makes  Johnny  have  to  work  so  hard, 
though  he  is  so  young  ?  Johnny  would  do  as  his  father 
does,  if  he  had  not.  what  you  lack. 

C.  Mother,  what  can  it  be  ?  Do  tell  me,  now,  that's 
a  good  mother. 

M.  It  is  the  Disposition  to  work,  my  dear,  or  what  is  gen- 
erally called  Industry.  You  do  not  love  to  work,  or  you 
w^ould  never  be  idle. 

C.  Yes,  mother,  but  if  I  have  not  the  disposition  how 
can  I  get  it  ? 

M.  By  working  till  work  becomes  a  pleasure.  Yon 
were  made  to  be  active,  or  you  would  not  be  so  tired  of 
rest. 

C.  If  I  was  made  to  be  active,  why  am  I  not  active, 
then? 

M.  Let  me  answer  your  question  by  asking  another. 
Do  you  think  you  were  made  to  be  good  or  to  be  wicked  ? 

C  O,  to  be  good,  no  doubt,  though  I  don't  think  I  am 
any  too  good. 

M.  Why  are  you  not  as  good  as  you  can  be  ?  Is  it 
not,  because  you  do  not  always  try  to  be  good?  This 
constant  trying,  will  create  a  habit,  the  disposition  will 
grow  with  the"  habit,  and  in  time  you  will  prefer  to  do 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  21 

good,  you  will  love  to  do  good.  Now,  can  you  apply  these 
remarks  to  v,rork  ? 

C.  Yes,  mother,  and  I'll  go  to  work  right  away,  and 
never  rest  till  I  am  industrious,  and  love  to  work. 

M.  Then  you  will  never  love  it,  my  son.  If  you  are 
unused  to  work,  you  must  not  try  to  do  too  much  at  first. 
Begin  rioderately,  and  do  more  as  you  get  used  to  it.  All 
I  have  said,  will  apply  to  your  lessons  at  school,  as  well 
as  to  your  work,  and  your  conduct.  Be  attentive,  be  dili- 
gent,  keep  trying,  and  I  shall  never  hear  you  complain 
agai.  that  you  are  tired  to  death  of  doing  nothing. 


VIII.    THE  RIGHT  OF  PROPERTY. 


GEORGE  AND  CHARLES. 


George.     Come,  Charles,  let  us  go  and  get  some  peaches. 

Charles.     Where  ?     There  are  none  in  our  garden. 

G.     There  are  plenty  in  Squire  Carleton's. 

C.     They  are  not  ours. 

G.     They  ivill  be  when  we  get  them. 

C.  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  Taking  a  man's  property 
witiiout  his  permission,  does  not  make  it  ours. 

G.  Poh  I  He  has  more  than  he  wants,  and  more  than 
he  can  use  up. 

C.     Perhaps  he  means  to  sell  them. 

G.  Perhaps  he  does,  and  perhaps  he  does'nt.  I  know 
he  can't  eat  them  all,  and  I  mean  to  help  him. 

C.  Do  you  mean  to  say,  tliat  you  intend  to  steal  the 
}) caches  ? 

G  Not  exactly.  But  1  love  peaches,  and  he  has  more 
than  he  wants,  and  would  not  miss  a  bushel  if  I  took 
Ihem. 

O.  You  may  say  the  same  of  his  dollars  ;  but  would 
you  dare  to  take  his  dollars  for  the  same  reason  ? 

G.     Peaches  are  not  dollars. 

C.     They  are  property,  and  bring  dollars. 


22 

G.  Not  always.  See,  there  tliey  lie  on  the  ground, 
thousands  of  them,  and  if  we  don't  i)ick  them  up,  some- 
body else  will.     So  what  harm  will  it  do  ? 

C  You  have  no  right  to  do  wrong  because  others  will 
do  it  if  you  do  not. 

G.  What  do  you  mean  by  wrong?  If  I  take  what 
another  does  not  want,  or  even  miss,  I  do  no  wrong.  He 
does  the  wrong  in  keeping  it  from  me. 

C.  I  don't  understand  it  so.  What  nobody  owns,  any 
one  may  take;  —  what  is  lost,  any  one  may  take,  and 
keep  —  for  the  owner;  but  what  is  not  lost,  and  has  an 
owner,  can  not  be  taken  without  doing  a  wrong. 

G  How  would  you  get  some  of  these  peaches,  then, 
if  you  Wanted  some  ? 

C  I  would  go  and  ask  the  owner  to  allow  me  to  pick 
up  some  of  them.     You  have  not  done  this. 

G.     Suppose  he  refuses  to  give  me  any? 

C.  Then  go  without.  It  will  not  be  half  so  hard  to 
go  with  an  empty  stomach  as  with  a  burdened  conscience. 

G.  Well,  I  believe  you  are  right,  and  there  comes  the 
Squire !  Let  us  go  and  ask  him.  If  he  does'nt  give  us 
some  he  w'\\\  be  as  mean  as  dirt. 

C.  There  I  agree  with  you.  But  the  property  of  mean 
men  must  be  respected,  or  the  generous  will  have  no  secu- 
rity for  theirs. 


IX.     OBEDIENCE. 


MARY  AND  SUSAN,  TWO  SCHOOL-MATES. 

Mary.  Do  you  think  it  right  to  spend  your  time  in 
writing  billets,  when  our  teacher  has  expressly  forbidden 
it  in  study  hours  ? 

Susan.     I  don't  mean  that  he  shall  know  it. 

M.     That  is  not  an  answer  to  my  question. 

S.  I  don't  choose  to  answer  it.  If  he  doesn't  know 
that  I  break  the  rules,  there  is  no  harm  done. 


2'S 

M.     Is  not  your  attention  turned  from  your  studies  ? 

S.  Yes,  but,  my  little  inquisitor  general,  what  right 
have  you  to  catechise  me  in  this  way?  I  an  not  under 
your  care. 

M.     Yes,  you  are, 

S.     I  should  like  to  know  how  and  wliy. 

M.     Are  you  not  my  friend  ? 

S.     Granted.     What  then  ? 

31.  Is  it  not  my  duty  to  look  after  my  friend,  and  aea 
that  she  does  no  wrong  ? 

S.  The  proverb  says  we  wear  a  large  bag  in  front  for 
the  faults  of  our  friends,  and  a  little  pocket  behind  for  our 
own. 

M.  You  know,  Susan,  I  am  not  so  unjust.  But  to  re- 
turn to  my  question  ;  —  Do  you  think  it  right  to  disobey 
your  teacher,  if  he  does  not  see  and  know  it?  Is  this  your 
standard  of  right  and  wrong  ? 

S.     Do  you  think  1  am  going  to  answer  you  ? 

M.  Yes.  But  let  me  ask  you  whom  or  what  you  offend 
when  you  do  wrong. 

S.  I  offend  him  who  makes  the  rule,  of  course.  If 
Mr.  Linzee  tells  me  not  to  write  a  billet,  and  I  write  one, 
then  I  offend  Mr.  Linzee,  and  no  one  else.  Nay,  I  don't 
offend  at  all,  if  tlie  ride  is  unjust. 

M.     Do  you  think  this  rule  unjust  ? 

S.  Why  need  you  ask  that  question?  Are  you  deter- 
mined to  leave  me  no  chance  to  escape?  The  billet  was 
an  iimocent  billet. 

M.     Susan  Jones  Livingston,  look  me  in  the  face. 

S.     Well,  what  then  ? 

M.  Suzy,  you  know  you  have  done  wrong,  or  why  do 
you  blush  so  ? 

S  Your  honest  face  acts  like  a  mirror,  and  seeing  aiy- 
self  in  it,  1  blush  at  my  conduct,  and  plead  —  Uuilty. 

M.     I  knew  you  would  not  persist  in  the  wrong. 

S.  Well,  it  is  not  such  a  dreadfui  *:hing,  after  all,  to 
write  a  billet  to  one's  friend.  There  is  not  much  difference 
between  a  billet  and  the  regular  exercise. 

M.  There  is  all  the  difference  between  right  and  wrong, 
and  this  is  incalculable. 

.S.     O,  dear,  don't  sa^  another  woid.      I  only  plunge 


24  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

deeper  and  deeper.     Mary  I    [long  jmuae)  yoci  are  a  dear 
little  angel ;  what  did  your  wings  cost  you  ? 

M.  Oljedience,  Susan,  and  there  are  more  for  sale 
wliere  I  bought  mine.  Come,  let  us  go  a  shopping  for 
some. 


X.    THE  HARD  LESSON. 

Child.  Father,  need  I  go  to  school  to-day?  I  don't, 
want  to  go. 

Father.  You  mean  you  don't  wish  to  go,  my  child,  for 
all  children  are  ignorant,  and  want  knowledge,  though 
they  may  not  wish  to  go  to  school  to  obtain  it. 

C.  Why,  father,  what  good  will  knowledge  do  me  ? 
The  pig  and  the  horse  never  study,  and  they  are  a  great 
deal  liappier  than  I  am. 

F.  Would  you  like  to  live  as  they  do,  and  go  to  the 
same  school  ? 

C.  School,  father!  Why,  horses  and  pigs  don't  go 
to  scliool,  do  tliey  ?  I  never  saw  a  pig  school,  nor  a  horse 
school  in  my  life. 

F.  You  have  seen  them  without  knowing  it,  my  boy. 
The  pig-pen  is  the  pig's  school-house. 

C.     O,  father,  wJiat  lessons  does  he  learn  there  ? 

F.     He  learns  to  eat,  and  sleep,  and  grow  fat. 

C.  I  wish  I  had  notliing  else  to  learn  I  guess  he 
would  not  eat  or  sleep  or  grow  fat,  if  he  had  to  learn 
grammar  and  geography,  as  I  do. 

F.  When  you  have  learned  your  lesson  and  grown  up, 
you  can  enjoy  your  learning;,  but  what  becomes  of  the  pig 
wlien  he  leaves  his  school? 

C.     O  dear,  father,  he  is  killed,  is  n't  he? 

F      Yes,  that  is  all  we  put  him  to  school  for. 

C.  But,  father,  what  school  does  the  horse  go  to?  I 
never  saw  a  horse  school-house,  nor  a  horse  school-mas- 
ter. 

F.     The  horse's  school-house  is  the  barn. 

C.     Well,   father,   I  heard  our  teacher  say  our  school 


► 


25 

house  is  a  bam,  but  he  couldn't  mean  that  we  were 
horses. 

P.  No  ;  he  only  meant  that  the  house  was  old,  and 
cold  and  dirtv,  as  barns  are  apt  to  be.  But,  although  the 
barn  is  the  horse's  school,  his  lessons  are  generally  learn- 
ed out  of  doors. 

C.  What  books  does  he  study,  father  ?  I  never  saw  a 
horse  studying. 

F.  O  yes,  you  have.  Did  you  see  John  beating  the 
horse  this  morning,  when  I  stopped  him  ? 

C.     Yes,  sir,  and  I  was  glad  you  saved  the  poor  horse. 

F.  Well,  John  was  the  master,  and  was  giving 
the  horse  a  lesson. 

C.  What  was  the  lesson  about,  sir  ?  the  horse  did  not 
seem  to  like  it  or  understand  it. 

F.  It  was  a  lesson  in  obedience.  John  wished  him  to 
do  something,  and.  he  did  not  do  it,  and  so  John  beat  him. 

C.  That's  the  way  our  master  does,  father.  He  tells 
us  to  do  a  thing,  and  if  we  do'iit  do  it,  we  get  it,  I  tell 
you. 

F.     Get  what,  my  boy  ?    the  lesson  ? 

C.     No,  sir ;  what  the  horse  got  this  morning,  a  beating. 

F.  Well,  if  I  understand  you,  you  wish  to  change 
places  with  the  horse  and  the  pig,  to  live  as  they  do,  go 
to  their  schools,  and  be  happy,  as  you  think  they  are. 

C.  I  should  not  like  to  be  killed  like  a  pig,  nor  beaten 
like  a  horse. 

F.  I  suppose  not.  But  would  you  like  to  do  nothing 
as  the  pig  does,  and  never  even  play  ? 

C.     No,  I  could  not  stand  that. 

F.  Would  you  work  like  the  horse,  and  never  think, 
sr  speak,  or  read  ? 

C.     O  dear,  no,  sir.     Is  it  school  time,  father  ? 

F.     Not  quite,  but  why  do  you  ask  the  question  ?  \ 

C,  Because  I  am  rather  inclined  to  think  school  is  the 
best  place  for  me. 

F.  My  son,  you  must  remember  that  you  have  a  mind 
and  a  heart  that  may  be  taught,  while  the  pig  and 
the  horse  have  no  mind  that  can  be  instructed,  and  no 
heart  that  can  be  taught  to  love  God  and  to  do  good 
to  others.  You  may  not  see  the  use  of  all  you  are  now  re- 


26  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

quired  to  learn,  and  you  may  not  always  like  the  treatment 
you  receive  from  your  teachers,  but  you  must  never  re- 
fuse to  receive  instruction  because  it  does  not  come  in  a 
pleasant  form,  and  you  must  not  hate  school  because  you 
hate  the  rod.     Were  you  whipped  this  morning  ? 

C.  No,  father,  but  I  am  to  be  whipped,  this  afternoon, 
for  not  learning  my  lesson  in  the  morning.  I  tried  to 
learn  it,  but  it  was  too  hard,  and  so  I  failed  and  could 
not  help  it. 

F.  Come,  I  will  go  with  you  to  school,  and  try  to  per- 
suade your  teacher  not  to  beat  you,  as  I  persuaded  John 
not  to  beat  the  horse.  I  have  no  doubt  the  teacher  will 
forgive  you,  if  you  are  sorry  for  it. 

C,  Sorry  for  what,  father  ?  I  have  not  done  any  thing 
wrong.  You  told  John  he  should  not  beat  the  horse  be- 
cause the  load  was  more  than  he  could  draw,  and  my 
lesson  was  more  than  I  could  learn. 

F.  Come  along,  my  son,  you  have  learned  something 
in  the  horse's  school  that  may  help  you. 


XL    PUNISHMENT. 

KATE    AND    MARY. 


Kate.  T  wish  I  could  go  to  some  other  school,  Mary, 
for  T  do  nol  like  to  be  punished. 

Mary.  No  one  likes  to  be  punished.  But,  Kate,  when 
one  likes  to  do  wrong,  one  must  expect  to  pay  for  it.  Did 
the  teacher  hurt  you  much  ? 

K.  No,  .1  was  so  mad  I  did  not  care  for  it ;  if  she  had 
broken  my  head,  I  should  not  have  cried  a  tear. 

M,  I  take  care  not  to  do  wrong,  and  so  do  not  get  pun- 
'shed. 

K.     T  am  not  so  sly,  and  always  get  found  out. 

M.  I  should  think  you  would  grow  tired  of  doing 
wrong,  for  it  must  be  easier  to  do  right  than  wrong. 

K.  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  I  like  to  have  my  own 
way,  once  in  a  while. 


Ti 

M  If  your  own  way  is  wrong,  and  brings  you  into 
trouble,  I  should  think  you  would  give  it  up,  and  get  a 
better  way. 

K.  Why,  do  you  believe  I  could  always  act  right,  as 
you  do? 

M.  Certainly.  Don't  you  think  I  could  act  wrong  as 
yoLi  do,  if  I  tried  hard  to  do  so  ?  Do  you  think  your  little 
kitten  will  scratch  me  if  I  take  her  up  ? 

K.  No,  indeed !  She  scratched  me  once,  and  I  soon 
taught  her  better.  I  should  like  to  see  her  scratch  any 
body  now. 

M.     How  did  you  cure  her  so  completely  "^ 

K.  I  beat  her  soundly,  and  would  not  give  her  any 
thing  to  cat  for  a  wliole  day.  {Mary  begins  to  laugh,  and 
Kate  says. )  What  are  you  laughing  at,  Mary  ?  I  do  not 
see  any  thing  to  laugh  at. 

M.  Nor  did  the  kitten.  And  yet"  it  is  rather  funny 
that  the  kitten  left  oiF  doing  wrong  after  being  punished 
only  once,  and  you  cannot  leave  olf  after  being  punished 
a  dozen  times. 

K.     Yes,  but  the  kitten  is  n't  a  girl. 

M.  I  know  she  is  not,  and  that  makes  me  wonder  the 
more,  for  she  ought  not  to  be  expected  to  do  as  well  as  an 
intelligent  girl.  Now  confess,  Kate,  that  you  can  do 
right  if  you  choose  to  do  so.  You  know  you  can,  and  I 
wish  you  would,  for  my  sake. 

K.  Why  for  your  sake,  when  I  have  to  take  all  the 
punishment  ? 

M.  I  really  believe  that,  every  time  you  are  punished, 
I  suffer  more  than  you  do.  I  love  you,  Kate,  and  can  not 
bear  to  see  you  suffer. 

K.  You  are  a  dear  one,  Moll, and  there's  no  denying 
it.  Now  I'll  tell  you  what  I  mean  to  do,  for  I  am  desper- 
ate  

M.     Don't  say  so. 

K.  Hear  me  out,  Mary.  I  am  desperately  sick  of  be- 
ing punished,  and  not  a  little  ashamed  to  be  worse  than 
my  kitten,  and  so,  you  see,  I  am  going 

M.  Where,  dear  Kate?  Not  to  leave  the  school,  I 
hope. 

K.     No,  but  to  love  it,  and  try  to  be  as  good,  as  you  are, 


28  FOWLfi'S    HUNDRKD    DIALOGUES. 

you  Jittle  {)hilosopher.  There,  {kissing  her,)  there,  let  me 
seal  my  promise  with  a  kiss,  and  when  you  see  me  doing 
wrong  again,  just  say  "kitty,  kitty,  kitty,"  and  I  shall 
take  the  !iint.  Little  did  I  tliink,  when  I  punished  my  kitten, 
that  the  blows  were  to  fall  so  directly  on  my  own  head. 


XII.    FICTION  AND  FACT. 

MARY  AND  AMY. 

Amy.  Have  you  read  the  tale,  Mary,  that  mother 
lent  you  ? 

Mary.  Yes,  and  was  delighted  with  it.  But,  Amy,  do 
tell  me  where  the  people  live  that  I  have  read  about. 

A.  Where  do  they  live?  Why,  what  a  funny  ques 
tion.     They  live  here,  and  everywhere. 

M.  Why,  Amy  dear,  the  story  says  the  poor  girl  was 
so  good  that  a  prince  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  married 
her.  I  never  heard  of  any  poor  girl  liere  that  was  so  for- 
tunate as  to  marry  a  prince. 

A.  Perhaps  not,  but  then  poor  girls  sometimes  marry 
rich  men. 

M.  Rich  men  are  not  princes,  and  then  you  say  they 
only  do  so  sometimes.  I  guess  sometimes  means  very,  very 
seldom.  And  then,  Amy,  the  man  that  was  on  the  brink 
of  ruin  found  a  bag  of  money  thaf  contained  just  the  sum 
he  wanted  to  save  him.  Poor  fatlier  did  not  find  such  a 
bag,  when  he  lost  his  property,  and  died  broken-hearted. 

A.  No,  he  did  not.  Such  bags  of  money  are  scarce, 
but  then,  such  a  thing  is  not  impossible.  It  might  happen, 
you  know. 

M.  I  should  think  it  very  unlikely.  And  the  poor 
widow  found  such  a  friend  I  He  supplied  all  her  wants, 
educated  her  children,  and,  when  he  died,  left  each  of 
them  a  fortune.     Where  did  that  happen,  dear  sister  ? 

A.     I  can  not  exactly  say,  Mary. 

M.     I  know  it  did  not  happen  here,  for  poor  mother  did 


29 

not  find  a  friend  after  fatlier  died,  and  she  has  almost 
killed  herself  by  working  to  pay  for  our  clothes  and  our 
education. 

A.  You  have  no  imagination,  sister.  These  things 
are  not  meant  to  be  received  as  facts. 

M.     Are  they  falsehoods,  Amy  ? 

A.  No,  dear,  a  falsehood  is  told  to  deceive  or  injure 
some  one,  and  these  only  please. 

M.  O,  I  begin  to  see  through  it.  Princes  do  not  mar- 
ry poor  girls  ;  those  who  are  destitute  do  not  find  money- 
bags ;  and  widows  do  not  find  friends ;  but  the  scory  is 
told  to  show  how  it  would  be,  if  things  happened  as  they 
ought  to  happen. 

A.     That  is  right,  you  understand  it  perfectly. 

M.  No,  I  don't,  dear  sis,  no,  I  don't.  There  is  one 
thing  I  can  not  yet  understand,  and  that  is,  why  things 
are  not  so,  if  they  ought  to  be  so.     Now  tell  me  that. 

A.  O  dear,  you  are  getting  too  hard  for  me,  Mary. 
Let  us  go  and  find  mother,  and  see  if  she  can  answer 
your  question.  It  is  pretty  clear  the  world  of  romance  is 
not  the  world  we  and  poor  mother  live  in. 


XIII.    SILLY  BILLY. 


GEORGE    AND    BILLY. 


George.     Billy,  why  don't  you  do  as  other  boys  do  ? 

BiUy.  I  do  do  as  other  boys  do.  What  is  the  matter 
with  what  I  do,  Georgy  ? 

G.  You  are  silly,  Billy,  and  every  body  laughs  at 
you. 

B.  If  you  were  silly,  I  should  not  laugh  at  you. 
What  is  silly,  Georgy  ?  tell  me,  so  that  I  may  not  be  silly 
any  longer. 

G.     You  talk  like  a  little  baby,  and  say  foolish  things. 

B.     I  didn't  know  it,  Georgy,  what  do  I  say  ? 

G.  All  sorts  of  things.  You  tell  all  you  know,  and 
get  ten  whippings  where  I  get  one. 

3* 


30  foavle's  hundred  dialogues. 

B.  I  always  tell  the  truth,  Georgy.  Is  that  acting 
silly? 

G.  To  be  sure  it  is,  unless  you  are  obliged  to  tell  it. 
I  never  say  a  word  that  is  against  myself. 

B.  I  do,  Georgy,  and  though  I  thiuk  it  is  hard  to 
be  whipped  for  telling  the  truth,  still  1  will  tell  it,  and 
take  the  consequences. 

G.  You  are  a  fool,  Billy,  for  doing  so.  Besides,  you 
do  other  things  tliat  none  but  a  fool  would  do. 

B.  What  do  you  mean,  Georgy  ?  I  try  to  do  as  I 
would  be  done  unto.  What  have  I  done  that  was 
foolish  ? 

G.  You  gave  all  your  candy  to  John  Crave,  when  he 
asked  you  for  a  piece.  But  he  never  would  give  you  a 
piece  in  retuni. 

B.  He  never  did  give  me  anything,  I  know,  but  must 
I  be  stingy  because  John  is?  I  don't  feel  stingy  as  he 
does,  and  it  is  no  trouble  to  me  to  give. 

G.  None  but  a  fool  would  give  to  a  fellow  who  never 
gives  anything  in  return.  He  ought  to  be  asliamed  to 
take  your  candy. 

B.  So  I  thought,  and  I  gave  it  to  him,  in  hopes  lie 
would  grow  more  generous. 

G.  Why,  you  are  green  as  grass  !  But  giving  away 
your  things  is  not  so  bad  as  letting  the  boys  plague  you, 
v/ithout  resenting  it.  Gracious  me !  I  wouldn't  be  a 
coward 

B.     What  do  you  mean,  Georgy  ?     I  am  no  coward. 

G.  You  let  Sam  Jones  strike  you  three  or  four  tunes, 
and  didn't  hit  him  back  again. 

B.  Well,  I  didn't  wish  to  hurt  Samm.y.  Sammy  was 
in  a  passion,  and  didn't  know  what  he  was  doing. 

G.     He  tried  to  hurt  yoit. 

B.  Well,  he  did  hurt  me,  but  it  would  not  relieve  my 
pain  to  give  pain  to  him,  and  so  I  didn't  retaliate,  though 
I  believe  I  could  have  flogged  him. 

G.  What  strange  notions  you  have,  you  silly  fool. 
Nobody  will  ever  respect  you  if  you  don't  respect  your- 
self 

B.  But  I  do  respect  myself,  Georgy,  and  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  am  siicli  a  silly  fool  as  you  tliink  I  am. 


vowll's  hundred  dialogues.  31' 

G.     Why,  what  makes  you  think  so.  you  smiple  one? 

B.     I'll  tell  you,  if  you  will  never  tell  again. 

G.  I  guess  I  shall  not  be  tempted  to  repeat  any  of 
your  nonsense. 

B.  Well  then,  Sammy  came  to  me  this  morning,  and 
told  me  he  was  sorry  he  struck  me,  and  he  would  never 
strike  me  again,  because  I  was  better  than  he  was. 

G.     Did  Sam  say  that  ? 

B.     He  certainly  did.     Have  you  seen  this  new  top  ? 

G.     No.     Where  did  you  get  it  ?     It  is  a  oeauty. 

B,  John  Crave  gave  it  to  me  last  evening,  and  I 
know  it  was  because  I  gave  him  all  my  candy.  So  you 
see  I'm  not  such  a  silly  fool  as  you  think  I  am. 

G.  Billy  who  put  you  up  to  this  ?  I  don't  believe 
you  did  it  without  help, 

B.  I  don't  pretend  I  did.  Mother  often  talks  to  me 
about  such  things,  and  I  love  her  so  that  i  try  to  mind 
her,  though  sometimes  it  is  hard  to  do  so. 

G.  My  father  tells  me  never  to  give,  unless  I  get 
something  by  it ;  and  if  a  boy  strikes  me.  always  to  strike 
back  again,  though  the  fellow  is  as  big  as  Goliath. 

B.  My  mother  says  that  is  the  way  most  persons  do, 
but  she  has  tried  both  ways,  and  likes  the  other  way  best, 
and  I  love  mother,  and  try  to  do  a»  she  does 

G.     Your  mother  is  a  woman,  and  my  father  is  a  man. 

B.  What  of  that  ?  When  the  Lord  blessed  the  peace- 
makers did  he  bless  only  the  women  ?  When  he  told  his 
followers  to  forgive  injuries,  did  he  only  tell  the  womeu 
to  forgive  ? 

G.  Poh,  Billy,  my  father  says  the  world  is  not  pre- 
pared to  live  so. 

B.  If  all  men  wait  till  it  is  prepared,  no  one  will 
begin,  and  then  how  long  will  it  be  before  the  world  will 
be  perfect  ?  Come,  George,  there  is  a  sum  in  the  Rule  of 
Three  for  you.  Good  bye,  mother  is  calling  me.   (  He  goes.) 

G.  {Alone.)  Billy  is  not  so  very  green  after  all,  and 
that  Sam  Jones's  aflair  beats  all  I  ever  neard.  Johnny 
Crave's  top,  too,  is  a  spinner.  1  am  not  sure  that  I  am 
not  silly  Billy  after  all. 


32 


XIV.    THE  LITTLE  BEGGAR  GIRL. 

PANNS      AND      ITER     MOTHER.         (oR      BY     ALTERING      NAME3,    A 
FATHER   AND    HIS    LITTLE    SON.) 

Mother.  Where  are  you  going,  Fanny,  in  such  a 
hurry  ?  . 

Fanny.  There  is  a  beggar  girl  at  the  door,  and  I  am 
going  to  tell  Michael  to  drive  her  away.     I  hate  beggars. 

M.  Why  do  you  hate  beggars,  Fanny  ?  It  is  a  serious 
thing  to  hate  any  human  being. 

¥.  Beggars  always  look  ragged  and  dirty,  and  T  don't 
like  rags  and  dirt. 

M.  If  you  had  no  one  to  take  care  of  you,  perhaps 
you  would  become  ragged  and  dirty.  Do  you  know  any- 
thing about  the  little  beggar  girl  ?  Did  you  ever  see  her 
before  ? 

jP.  No,  mother,  but  I  have  heard  the  girls  at  school 
say  that  all  beggars  are  liars  and  thieves. 

M.  No  doubt  many  are  ;  bnt,  perhaps,  they  would 
not  be  so  bad,  if  they  were  not  driven  away  without 
being  warmed,  or  fed,  or  clothed.  If  you  were  ragged, 
and  cold,  and  hungry,  and  knocked  at  a  door,  where  you 
saw  a  fire  and  everything  comfortable,  and  were  driven 
away  without  even  a  kind  word,  would  not  you  be 
tempted  to  do  something  wrong,  rather  than  freeze  and 
starve. 

jP.     But  I  am  not  poor,  mother,  — and  father  is  rich. 

M.  Then  you  are  able  to  help  others  who  are  in  want. 
Your  having  abundance  is  a  reason  for  helping  the  des- 
titute, and  not  for  neglecting  them.  But  how  is  your 
little  bird  ? 

F.  O,  she  is  going  to  live,  mother,  though  the  naughty 
cat  tore  off  some  of  her  feathers,  and  made  her  wing 
bleed.  She  was  so  young,  mother,  she  couldn't  lly,  and 
I  believe  some  wicked  boys  had  killed  her  father  and 
mother,  before  the  cat  caught  the  poor  little  thing. 

M.     What  did  you  do  to  her  ? 

F.      Michael  and  I  took  care  of  her.     I  gave  the  poor 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  33 

thing  some  little  crumbs  of  cake  to  eat,  and  some  clean 
water,  and  Michael  v/'f.shed  away  the  blood,  and  when 
she  got  over  her  fright,  she  seemed  a  great  deal  better. 

M.  Why  did  you  do  so  much  for  the  little  bird,  Fan- 
ny, when  you  wished  Michael  to  drive  the  little  girl 
awa,y,  without  giving  her  any  food  or  drink,  and  without 
warming  her  and  making  her  comfortable  ? 

F.     What  did  you  say,  mother? 

M.  Which  do  you  think  the  most  important,  Fanny, 
a  little  bird  or  a  little  girl  ? 

F.     Mother,  may  I  go  and  call  the  little  girl  back  ? 

M.  Remember,  Fanny,  that  a  beggar  only  means  one 
who  asks  for  aid.  When  you  say  "Our  Father,"  as  you 
do  every  night  and  morning,  you  ask  God  to  give  you 
your  daily  bread,  don't  you  ? 

F.     Yes,  mother,  I  do. 

M.  Well,  when  yon  ask  God  for  bread,  you  are  a  beg- 
gar as  much  as  the  little  girl  is,  but  did  God  ever  turn  you 
away,  or  refuse  to  hear  you  ?  If  He  gives  you  bread, 
and  does  not  give  any  to  the  little  beggar  girl,  He  does 
so  to  give  you  a  chance  to  show  your  kindness  by  giving 
her  some  of  yours. 

.F  Dear  mother,  I  never  thought  of  this  before,  and 
you  never  told  me. 

M.  Well,  dear,  now  you  may  run,  and  call  the  little 
girl  back,  and  treat  her  at  least  as  kindly  as  you  did  the 
littlo  bird. — (She  runs  out.)  Fanny  is  not  hard-hearted, 
but  it  is  evident  that  I  have  not  educated  her  aright. 
How  rarely  the  education  of  the  head  reaches  the  heart  * 


XV.    THE  PLEDGE. 


GEORGE    AND   JAMES. 


George.  I  can  not  see,  James,  why  you  are  unwilling 
to  take  the  pledge,  if,  as  I  know,  you  never  drink  any 
spirit,  and  Jiave  resolved  never  to  do  so.  ^ 


34  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

James.  I  see  no  need  of  a  promise,  if  my  mind  is 
made  up.     I  am  as  safe  without  the  pledge  as  with  it. 

G.  I  can  not  think  so.  In  other  human  affairs,  we  do 
not  act  as  you  propose  to  do.  All  bonds,  notes  and  con- 
tracts, are  pledges,  and  yet  they  are  valuable,  if  it  be 
only  to  help  the  memory. 

/.  I  want  no  such  helps,  my  memory  is  strong  enough 
without  a  formal  pledge. 

G.  Your  memory  of  what  ?  If  I  understand  your  po- 
sition, you  have  nothing  to  remember.  You  do  not  in- 
tend to  transgress,  you  say  ;  pray,  why  not  promise  never 
to  do  so,  and  then  your  strong  memory  may  help  your 
good  resolution  ? 

/.  My  resolution  is  enough,  and  the  same  as  a 
promise. 

G.  Not  exactly.  A  resolution  is  a  contract  that  a 
man  makes  with  himself,  and  it  may  be  easily  broken  ; 
but  a  promise  implies  two  parties,  and  is  not  so  apt  to  be 
disregarded. 

/.  I  should  be  afraid,  if  I  took  the  pledge,  that  I 
might,  some  time  or  other,  break  it,  and  be  put  to  open 
shame. 

G.  You  surely  do  not  wish  to  secure  an  easy  retreat, 
in  case  you  are  tempted  to  excess. 

J.  No,  but  I  do  not  wish  to  disgrace  myself  by  ena- 
bling any  one  to  hold  up  a  broken  promise  before  my 
eyes. 

G.  If  you  consider  a  resolution  as  good  as  a  promise, 
I  do  not  see  that  it  matters  much  which  is  held  up  in 
fragments  to  mortify  you.  When  Cortez  invaded  Mexico, 
he  found  that  his  soldiers  could  not  be  depended  upon, 
because  their  vessels  lay  at  the  landing  place,  and  they 
knew  that,  in  any  difficulty,  they  could  fall  back  upon 
them. 

/.     Well,  what  of  that? 

G.  He  burned  them  all,  and  his  troops  being  obhged  to 
go  forward,  obtained  a  complete  victory  over  the  enemy. 

J.     Then  you  would  have  me  burn  my  resolutions  ? 

G.  No,  not  exactly,  but  I  would  place  them  under  the 
guard  of  a  solenm  pledge,  and  so  "  make  assurance  dou- 
bly sure." 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  35 

J.  Well,  George,  give  me  your  hand,  for  I  surrender, 
and  am  half  inclined  to  think  that  my  objection  to  the 
pledge  arose  from  a  want  of  sincerity  in  my  resolutions. 
t  will  sign  the  pledge,  burn  my  boats,  and  face  the  ene- 
my, without  allowing  defeat  or  retreat  to  be  possible. 

G.     Heaven  help  you  to  keep  your  promise. 

/.     So  be  it ;  and  let  all  parents  say,  Amen. 


XVI.     STRAINING  AT  THE  GNAT. 

A   MOTHER   AND   HER   LITTLE    SON    JAMES.       (tHE   TEACHER  CAN 

EASILY    ADAPT    THIS    TO    A    MOTHEB    AND    DAUGHTER, 

OR   TO    A    FATHER   AND    HIS    SON.) 

Mother.  James,  my  love,  what  are  you  doing  with 
that  little  fly  ? 

James.     Playing,  mother.     See  how  he  staggers. 

M.  Let  me  see.  Why,  my  dear,  two  legs  and  one  of 
its  wings  are  gone.     How  happened  this  ? 

J.     I  pulled  them  ofl^,  mother. 

M.  How  could  my  son  do  such  a  cruel  thing?  Did 
you  know  that  this  insect  feels  pain  as  much  as  you  do 
when  you  hurt  yourself? 

/.  I  didn't  know  that  insects  felt,  mother ;  they  do 
not  say  any  thing,  nor  make  any  noise  like  crying,  as  we 
do. 

M.  They  try  hard  enough  to  get  away  from  their 
tormentors.     Do  you  know  who  made  that  fly,  James  ? 

/.  Yes,  mamma.  I  suppose  God  did.  for  the  hymn 
says, — 

"  He  who  made  the  earth  and  sky, 
Also  makes  the  little  fly." 

M.  Yes,  He  can  give  life,  but  when  you  take  it 
away,  you  cannot  give  it  again.  Have  you  a  right  to  take 
what  does  not  belong  to  you  ? 

/.  No,  mother,  not  after  I  understand  it.  But,  mother 
dear  what  are  the  bells  ringing  for,  so  merrily  ? 


36 

M.  Because,  our  army  has  obtained  a  glorious  victory 
over  the  Mexicans. 

J.     What  is  a  victory,  mamma  ? 

M.  The  two  armies  have  fought,  and  our  soldiers 
have  killed  more  than  five  thousand  of  the  Mexicans. 

/.     Are  you  glad,  mamma  ? 

M.  Yes,  J  ames,  and  you  must  be  glad,  and  rejoice, 
too.  You  should  hooraw,  and  clap  your  hands.  Why 
do  you  look  so  sober  about  it  ? 

J.  Mamma.  I  was  thinking  why  I  should  be  sorry 
when  I  kill  a  fly,  and  so  merry  when  five  thousand  men 
are  killed.  Does  God  care  more  for  flies  than  for  men, 
mamma  ? 

M.     Come,  my  child,  it  is  time  for  you  to  go  to  bed. 


XVII.    ALL'S  WELL. 

George.  Frederic. 

Thomas.  Henry. 

Charles. 

George.     Have  you  seen  the  fallen  Nabob  this  mornini,  ? 

Thotnas.     Do  you  mean  Bill  Smart  ? 

Geo.  The  same.  You  know  his  father  has  lost  all  his 
property,  and  Master  Bill  will  have  to  attend  the  public 
school  like  the  rest  of  us. 

Charles.  Hooraw!  hooraw!  Now  we'll  pay  off  old 
debts. 

Frederic.  That  is  unmanly.  If  he  has  insulted  you, 
your  true  revenge  is  not  to  return  the  insult. 

Geo.  O,  Mr.  Simon  Pure,  how  do  you  sell  sentiment 
by  the  quantity?  You  had  better  keep  your  advice  till 
it  is  called  for. 

Ch.  Here  comes  the  little  great  man.  Now  prepare 
to  treat  him  with  due  respect  and  reverence. 

Fred.  O,  boys,  don't  insult  him  ;  you  see  he  looks  sad 
enough  without  your  help. 


FOWLe's    hundred    DrALOGUES.  37 

{Enter  Henry,  looking  dejected.) 

Geo.  (Boiving  low.)  1  hope  your  Royal  Highness  is 
well  to-day. 

Tom.  {Pretending  to  kneel.)  Will  your  Excellency 
allow  me  to  kiss  your  great  toe  ? 

Ch.  {Boiving  low.)  Will  your  Majesty  allow  us  to 
walk  in  your  shadow  ? 

Fred.  Boys,  I  am  ashamed  of  you.  Henry,  you  must 
forgive  them.  You  may  not  always  have  treated  them 
with  respect,  but  I  believe  it  was  the  fault  of  your  educa- 
tion, and  not  of  your  heart. 

Henry.  Had  I  felt  guilty,  Frederic,  I  should  not  have 
come  near  them.  I  dare  say  I  have  been  foolish,  but  I 
shall  now  have  an  opportunity  to  grow  wiser,  and  to 
show  that  by  nature  I  am  not  proud. 

Geo.     If  you  ielt  so,  why  did  you  never  let  us  know  it  ? 

Hen.  I  thought  you  rather  avoided  me,  and  preferred 
that  I  should  keep  away.  I  have  often  longed  to  join  in 
your  sports,  but  feared  I  should  not  be  welcome.  Now 
misfortune  has  made  us  equal,  and  I  trust  you  will  not 
shun  me  any  longer. 

Geo.  I  hope  you  will  forgive  the  insult  I  oiFered  you 
just  now. 

Hen.     His  Royal  Highness  knew  it  was  a  mistake. 

Tom.     Henry,  I  feel  ashamed  of  what  I  said  to  you. 

Hn.     His  Excellency  feels  no  pain  in  his  great  toe. 

Ck.     Then  you  will  forget  my  impertinence  also. 

Hen.  Our  Majesty  will  be  careful  never  to  cast  a 
shade  over  your  pleasures, 

Fred.  Come,  boys,  I  knew  it  was  all  a  mistake.  We 
have  been  playing  "  Bhnd  Man's  Buff"  too  long,  let  us 
now  have  a  game  of  "All's  Well." 

Ch.     What  game  is  that,  Fred  ? 

Fred.  It  is  a  new  game,  but  easily  learned  and  very 
pleasant.  Some  give  it  a  longer  name,  and  sav  —  "  All's 
Well  that  Ends  Well." 

AU.  Good  I  Good  !  ( Tom  takes  Henry  under  one  arm, 
and  George  takes  the  other,  and  all  run  off  together.) 

4 


38  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 


XVIII.     THE  FISHING  PARTY 


A    FATHER   AND    HIS    SON   HARRY. 

Harry.  Father,  may  I  go  a  fishing  this  afternoon  ? 
School  does  not  keep. 

Father.  Where  will  you  fish,  Harry  ?  I  didn't  know 
there  were  any  fish  in  this  neighborhood. 

H.  O,  yes,  father,  there  are  plenty  of  little  mites  of 
ones  in  the  pond.  I  saw  the  boys  catching  lots  of  them 
yesterday.     You  never  saw  such  pretty  little  things. 

F.     Were  they  very  small  ? 

H.     O,  yes,  father,  not  longer  than  my  finger. 

F.     How  do  they  catch  them,  Harry? 

H.  Why,  don't  you  know,  father?  I'll  tell  you  ali 
about  it.  First,  they  get  a  pole,  and  then  some  thread  or 
small  twine ;  and  then  they  crook  up  a  pin,  if  they 
haven't  a  proper  fish-hook  ;  and  then,  father,  they  dig  up 
some  worms,  and  pull  them  in  pieces,  and  put  a  piece  on 
the  hook,  and  then  the  silly  little  fish  comes  to  eat  the 
worm,  and  we  twitch  the  hook  right  into  his  mouth,  and 
pull  him  out  of  the  water.  That's  the  way  we  do  it, 
father.     It's  slick  fun,  I  tell  you. 

F.  You  say  you  pull  the  worm  in  pieces  ;  do  you  sup- 
pose it  hurts  him  to  pull  him  in  pieces? 

H.  Why,  no,  father,  a  worm  don't  feel.  What  made 
you  think  a  worm  could  feel,  father  ? 

F.  They  squirm  as  much  as  we  do  when  we  are  in 
pain.  Do  you  think  they  like  to  be  torn  to  pieces,  and 
eaten  by  fishes  ? 

H.  I  never  thought  about  it,  father.  How  funny  it  is 
that  a  worm  should  feel ! 

F.  I  suppose  all  little  creatures  are  made  to  feel  pain 
as  well  as  pleasure.  But  how  do  the  little  fish  like  to  be 
nooked  ? 

P.  O,  they  kick  a  little  at  first,  but  they  soon  get 
over  it. 

F.     How  do  they  get  over  it  ?  —  by  getting  well  ? 

H.     O,  no,  indeed,  they  never  get  well,  they  die. 


39 

P.  Well,  that  is  one  way  to  get  over  pain !  I  suppose 
the  little  fish  don't  feel  any  pain  at  being  hooked,  and 
gasping  for  breath,  and  dying,  as  you  say  they  do? 

H.  I  guess  they  don't  feel  much,  if  they  did,  they'd 
make  more  noise  about  it. 

F.     What  do  you  do  with  them  after  they  are  dead  ? 

H.  I  throw  them  away,  because  they  are  too  small  to 
be  eaten. 

F.  Then  you  kill  them  for  pleasure,  Harry,  do  you 
not? 

H.     Ye — es,  sir,  that's  all.     Its  real  fun. 

F.  Do  you  think  the  little  things  take  pleasure  in 
swimming  about,  and  playing  as  they  do,  in  the  water, 
before  you  hook  them? 

//.     O,  yes,  they  are  delighted,  I  know  they  are. 

F.  Well,  my  son,  it  seems  to  me,  that,  if  you  were  a 
kind-hearted  boy,  you  would  rather  see  them  playing  and 
happy  in  the  water,  than  gasping  for  breath,  and  dying 
on  land,  especially  when  their  death  does  you  no  sort  of 
good. 

I£.     It  is'nt  quite  fair,  is  it,  father  ? 

F.  I  think  you  may  find  as  much  pleasure  in  some 
other  way.  It  can  not  be  innocent  to  amuse  ourselves 
by  giving  pain  to  little  creatures  that  God  has  made  to  be 
happy,  and  that  can  do  us  no  harm.  I  am  told  that  lit- 
tle fish  can  be  taught  to  eat  out  of  one's  hand,  and  this 
is  surely  better  than  killing  them. 

J£.  O,  father,  may  I  try  to  teach  them  ?  I  should  like 
it  dearly. 

F.  Yes,  and  I  will  give  you  a  little  boat  as  soon  as 
you  have  taught  one  fish  so  that' he  will  not  be  afraid  of 
you. 

11.  I  wish  I  could  bring  to  life  again  all  the  poor  little 
things  I  have  killed,  so  that  I  might  educate  them  instead 
of  killing  them. 


40  powle's  hundred  dialogues. 

XIX.    FILIAL  DUTY. 

SARAH    AND    LOUISE. 

Sarah.  Louise,  why  do  you  not  try  harder  to  learn 
your  lessons,  when  your  mother  is  so  anxious  for  youi 
improvement? 

Louise.  The  truth  is,  I  love  play  better  than  work, 
and  I  hate  every  thing  that  looks  like  study. 

S.  This  is  very  wrong,  and  very  ungrateful.  Do  you 
love  your  mother,  Sarah? 

L.  What  a  question.  Why  do  you  not  ask  me  whethei 
I  love  myself? 

S.     Well,  do  you  love  yourself? 

L.  Was  there  ever  such  impertinence  ?  Do  you  seri- 
ously doubt  whether  I  love  mother  ? 

S.     I  do. 

L.  Worse  and  worse  !  Pray,  Miss  Prim,  what  reason 
have  you  to  doubt  my  love  ? 

♦S.  I  see  no  evidence  of  it.  We  always  try  to  please 
those  whom  we  sincerely  love.  You  ought  to  endeavor 
not  only  to  please,  but  to  help  your  kind  mother. 

L.  How  can  I  help  her  ?  I  can  not  earn  any  thing  to 
lighten  her  expenses. 

.  S.  You  can  not  now.  But  when  she  becomes  old  and 
you  are  grown  up,  your  positions  will  be  changed. 

i.     Then  I  will  support  her. 

S.     What  will  you  do  ? 

L.     What  will  I  do  ? 

jS.     Yes,  what  will  you  do? 

L.  I  don't  know.  I  will  try  to  do  something ;  I  will 
teach  a  school. 

S.  Will  you  be  qualified  to  do  this  ?  A  good  teacher 
must  first  have  been  a  good  learner. 

L.  That's  true.  I  never  shall  make  a  teacher.  What 
'xin  I  do  ? 

S.  Can  you  do  any  thing  without  a  good  education  ? 
The  ignorant  always  labor  to  great  disadvantage. 

L.     I  might  do  needlework,  but  that  is  killing  poor 
■  mother,  and  is  very  unprofitable  as  well  as  unhealthful 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  41 

S.  Your  mother  wishes  you  to  study  and  become  an 
intelligent  teacher.  Now,  I  think,  if  you  really  loved 
your  mother,  you  would  try  to  please  her  by  doing  as  she 
wishes. 

Ij.     O  dear,  how  can  I  ever  study  ? 

S.  If,  as  you  say,  you  love  yourself,  I  do  not  see  how 
you  can  show  this  better  than  by  improving  yourself.  You 
can  be  young  but  once,  and  this  youth 

L.  Mast  no  longer  be  wasted.  I  never  saw  things  in 
this  light  before.  Come,  Sarah,  give  me  your  hand,  and 
go  with  me  to  mother.  I  wish  to  ask  her  pardon,  and  tc 
promise  her,  in  yonr  presence,  that  she  shall  no  longer  be 
?is£.ppointed  in  her  just  expectations. 

S.  That  is  yourself,  Louise.  I  knew  you  could  not 
Jong  act  so  contrary  to  your  true  heart.  O  how  happy 
your  mother  will  be  to  learn  that  you  intend  to  repay  her 
love.     Let  us  not  lose  a  moment. 


XX.     WHAT  IS  MONEY. 

MR.  BULLION  AND  HIS  VERY  YOUNG  SON.   (tHE  YOUNGER  THE 
BOY  THE  BETTER.) 

So7i.     Pa  I    What  is  money  ? 

Mr.  B.     What  is  money,  Paul?    Money? 

So7i.     Yes,  Pa,  what  is  money  ? 

Mr.  B.  Currency,  the  circulating  medium,  bank-bills, 
bullion,  bills  of  exchange,  the  precious  metals,  and  so 
forth. 

Son.     But,  Pa,  what  is  money  ? 

Mr.  B      Gold,  silver,  copper. 

Son.     Is  this  silver  pitclier  money,  Pa? 

Mr  B  Not  exactly,  Paul.  Money  is  eagles,  dollars 
and  cents. 

Smi.  I  know  what  they  are,  Pa,  but  I  don't  mean  that. 
I  mean  what  s  money  after  all  ? 


42 

Mr.  B.     What  IS  money  after  all  ? 

Son.  I  mean  what  is  it  good  for  ?  What  can  it  do  ? 
^Folding  hts  arms  and  looking  up  hioivingh/.) 

Mr.  B.     It  can  do  any  thing. 

Son.     Any  thing,  Papa  ? 

Mr.  B.     Yes,  any  thing, almost. 

Son.     Any  thing  means  every  thing,  don't  it.  Papa  ? 

Mr.  B.  It  includes  it.  Yes,  money  can  do  every 
lliing. 

Son.     Have  you  got  much  money,  Pa  ? 

Mr.  B.     Yes,  Paul,  a  great  deal,  a  great  deal. 

Son.  Then  why  did  you  let  mother  die  ?  Money  is 
not  cruel,  is  it  ? 

Mr.  B.     Cruel?     No,  a  good  thing  can't  be  cruel. 

So?t.  If  it's  a  good  thing,  and  can  do  every  thing,  I 
wonder  why  it  did  not  save  mother. 

Mr.  B  Money,  my  son,  though  powerful,  can  not 
keep  people  alive,  whose  time  has  come  to  die  ;  and  we 
must  all  die  sooner  or  later,  if  we  are  ever  so  rich. 

Son.     Will  you  die,  Pa,  one  of  these  days  ? 

Mr.  B.     Yes,  Paul ;  Yes. 

Son.     Will  your  money  die  too,  Papa  ? 

Mr.  B.     No,  that  will  live. 

Son.  Then  what  is  the  use  of  money  ?  If  it  does 
every  thing,  please  tell  me  one  thing  it  can  do. 

Mr.  B.     It  can  make  us  honored,  feared  and  loved. 

Son.  Yes,  Papa  ;  but  is  a  man  who  is  honored  for  liis 
money  really  better  tlian  one  who  has  no  money  ? 

Mr.  B.     Why  —  hem  !  —  perhaps  not,  ray  son. 

Son.  If  money  is  good.  Papa,  why  sliould  any  one 
fear  it? 

Mr.  B.  It  can  do  harm,  my  son.  God  is  good,  but  he 
is  greatly  to  be  feared  also  because  he  is  powerful. 

Son.  If  he  is  good  and  powerful,  I  should  think  lio 
would  always  do  good.  Are  money  and  God  the  same 
thing,  Papa? 

Mr.  B.     What  makes  you    ask  me  such  a   question? 

Son.  I  don't  know.  Pa,  but  I  wish  you  would  tell  me, 
and  I  should  like  to  know,  too,  how  money  can  make  us 
loved      Is  nobody  loved  but  those  who  have  money  ? 


fovvle's  hundred  dialogues.  '13 

Mr.  B.  If  I  should  die,  yon  would  have  my  money, 
and  then  people  would  love  you  for  it. 

Son.  I  should  think  that  would  be  loving  the  money, 
Papa,  and  not  loving  me.  Do  people  love  you  for  youi 
money  only  ? 

Mr.  B.  My  son  you  are  rimning  wild  with  your  ques- 
tions. When  you  grow  older,  you  will  understand  the 
nature  of  money  better.     {He  goes  out) 

Son.  ( Thoughtfully. )  Money  is  good  but  does  bad  things, 
I  know,  or  it  would  not  be  feared.  Money  is  powerful, 
and  yet  wouldn't  or  couldn't  save  mother  who  loved 
me  so,  and  wished  not  to  leave  me.  Money  makes 
men  honored,  although  they  are  not  good  men.  I  don't 
believe  I  know  what  money  is  after  ail,  any  better  than 
I  did  before.     What is money after  all  ? 


.  XXI.     WEALTH  IS  NOT  WORTH. 

JOHN   RICH    AND  WILLIAM    MEEK. 

John.  What  do  you  wear  that  old  coat  for  ?  You  looK 
like  a  beggar. 

Wm.  I  am  not  a  beggar,  and  it  will  be  soon  enough 
for  you  to  twit  me  when  I  ask  you  for  any  thing. 

Jolm.     Very  pert  for  such  a  poor  wretch. 

Wm.  Do  you  think  I  am  to  blame  for  my  father's 
poverty  ?     He  is  an  honest  man  though  a  poor  laborer. 

John.  Perhaps  you  are  not  to  blame,  but  then  how 
wretched  you  must  be ! 

W7n.  Is  my  being  wretched  any  reason  why  you 
should  insult  me  ? 

John.     I  don't  insult  you,  I  only  tell  you  what  I  think 

Wm.  Do  you  think  I  am  ignorant  of  what  you  tell 
me? 

John.  No,  not  exactly;  but  you  don't  seem  to  feel 
poor,  and  I  thought  I  would  just  put  you  in  mind  of  it. 


44  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

Wm.  I  do  not  feel  poor,  for  wealth  doesn  t  alwuys 
secure  happiness,  and  I  am  sure  it  does  not  ah^ays  pro- 
duce kind  feelings. 

John.     Poor  and  impudent  too  I 

Wm.  T  do  not  mean  to  be  impudent,  but  as  T  do  not 
dejiend  upon  you,  I  have  a  right  to  my  opinion,  and  I  only 
defend  it.     Poverty  is  not  the  greatest  of  evils. 

John.     I  should  like  to  know  what  is  worse. 

Wm.  Wealth  that  insults  poverty.  I  can  see  that  a 
person  may  have  riches  and  lack  not  only  knowledge,  but 
that  benevolent  disposition,  which  would  lead  him  to 
treat  others  with  civihty  and  kindness.  The  rich  should 
always  live  as  if  they  were  one  clay  to  be  poor. 

John.     We  will  call  you  Solomon  or  Di.  Franklin. 
^m.     I  am  more  anxious  to  know  what  I  a7?i,  than 
what  I  am  called.     It  is  time  to  go  to  school.     Good  bye. 
{He  goes  out.) 

John.  The  moment  these  fellows  know  any  thing  they 
lose  all  respect  for  their  betters. 


XXII    PROMPTING. 


TEACHER    AND    MARY. 


Teacher.  Mary  when  your  sister  answered  the  last 
question,  and  went  above  Josie,  did  you  whisper  the 
answer  to  her  ?     I  thought  I  saw  you  do  so. 

Marij.     I  did. 

T.     Do  you  think  it  right  that  you  should  do  so? 

M.  I  did  not  think  much  about  it.  All  the  girls  prompt 
each  other,  and  I  do  not  see  why  I  should  not  do  as  others 
do. 

T.  Why  did  you  not  prompt  Josie,  and  prevent  her 
from  losmg  her  place? 

M.     I  do  not  like  her  as  w?ll  as  I  do  sister. 

T.    Then  you  did  it  to  punsh  her,  I  su])pose? 


45 

M.  Not  exactly.  I  did  not  think  of  it  as  a  punish- 
ment, but  1  wished  to  help  sister. 

T.  Do  you  think  your  sister  is  fairly  entitled  to  go  up, 
under  such  circumstances  ? 

M.     Why  not  ?     Josie  missed,  and  ought  to  go  down. 

T.  My  question  is  not  whether  Josie  ought  to  go 
down,  but  wliether  your  sister  ought  to  go  up. 

M.     If  she  answered  rightly,  she  ought  to  go  up. 

T.  Did  she  answer  rightly,  or  did  you  answer  for 
her  ? 

M.     I  thought  I  had  a  right  to  tell  my  sister  her  lesson. 

T.  You  had  a  riglit  to  show  her  how  to  learn  it,  but, 
when  the  class  were  rec  ting,  do  you  think  you  had  a 
right  to  do  as  you  did  ? 

M.  1  do  not  see  what  difference  it  makes  at  what 
time  I  gave  her  the  information. 

T.  Should  you  think  it  right  for  me  to  tell  Josie  the 
answer  to  some  question  that  your  sister  had  missed,  and 
then  to  let  her  go  above  your  sister?  I  do  not  see  any 
difference  in  the  cases,  except  that  I  should  do  it  openly, 
and  you  did  it  secretly. 

M.     What  harm  did  it  do  ? 

T.  It  did  harm  in  more  ways  than  one.  First,  it  did 
harm  to  your  sister,  for  such  help  would  lead  her  to  neglect 
her  lessons  another  time,  and  to  rely  upon  your  assistance. 
Then  it  did  wrong  to  the  next  scholar  below  your  sister ; 
for,  if  your  sister  had  failed  to  answer,  the  next  might 
have  answered  and  gone  above  both. 

M.     Did  Josie  tell  you  of  it  ? 

T.  Not  till  I  asked  her  the  question  directly.  You 
know  I  thought  I  saw  you  do  it. 

M.     She  is  a  mean  tell-tale,  then. 

T.     By  no  means.     A  child  who  is  required  to  give 
information,  necessary  to  enable  the  teacher  to  do  justice, 
is  not  a    tell-tale,  but  a  witness.     One  who  voluntarily 
and  officiously  gives  information  against  her  companions 
is  a  tell-tale. 

M.     I  would  die  before  I  would  tell  tales. 

T.  Let  us  not  wander  from  the  point.  Allowing  that 
Josie  did  tell  me,  do  you  really  think  it  worse  for  her 
to  expose  a  wrong  she  supposed  to  be  done  to  her,  than 


46  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

for  you  to  do  that  wrong  ?  Besides,  if  it -w  as  right  for 
you  to  tell  your  sister,  how  can  it  be  wrong  for  Josie  to 
tell  me,  or  any  one  else,  that  you  did  so  ? 

M.  Well,  it  was  no  great  harm.  I  had  as  lief  get 
down  as  not. 

T.  Perhaps  Josie  feels  otherwise.  I  know  she  is  am- 
bitious to  keep  at  the  head  of  the  class,  for  her  aunt  has, 
1  think,  injudiciously,  promised  her  a  reward  if  she  keeps 
there.  But,  besides  the  harm  done  to  your  sister  and  to 
Josie,  you  did  some  harm  to  me,  by  leading  me  to  do 
what  1  considered  an  act  of  injustice  to  Josie.  It  is  pain- 
ful, too,  for  me  to  have  to  complain  of  you  in  this  manner, 
for  I  have  never  before  had  reason  to  censure  you. 

M.  My  dear  teacher,  I  may  as  well  own  that  my  con- 
duct lias  led  me  to  do  wrong  to  myself  also,  for  I  have 
tried  to  defend  conduct  that  I  knew  was  not  right.  I 
blushed  when  I  saw  that  you  noticed  my  speaking  to 
sister,  and  I  have  felt  degraded  in  my  own  estimation 
ever  since,  because  I  knew  I  must  be  degraded  in 
yours. 

T.  I  never  thought  you  could  long  approve  of  your 
conduct,  Mary  ;  but,  what  shall  be  done  to  set  the  matte* 
right  ? 

M.  I  will  confess  before  the  wliole  class  how  mean  1 
was,  and  I  think  my  disgrace  will  be  a  lesson  they  will 
not  easily  forget. 

T.  I  do  not  require  this,  since  you  are  penitent.  You 
may  tell  your  sister  to  resume  her  place,  and  as  no  one 
but  Josie  knows  of  your  fault,  you  may  acknowledge  it 
to  her,  but  I  do  not  think  any  unnecessary  exposure  can 
be  of  any  service.  On  a  suitable  occasion  I  shall  intro> 
duce  the  subject  of  promjfting  to  the  notice  of  the  clas?s, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  there  will  be  but  one  opinion  upm  it. 


rOWLE'S    HUNDRED    DIAL  DGUES.  47 


XXUI.     A  MISTAKE  NO  MISTAKE. 


MR.    PASS    AND    A    STRANGER. 

Stranger.  Put  up  my  horse,  friend,  and  give  him  as 
much  as  he  can  eat.  I  want  supper  and  lodging  foi 
myself  also, 

Mr.  Pass.     You  are  under  a  mistake,  I  suspect. 

/S.  There  is  no  mistake  about  it.  My  horse  is  tired 
and  hungry,  and  so  am  I.    I  think  there  can  be  no  mistake. 

Mr.  P.  Perhaps  not  about  that.  But  there  may  be 
some  as  to  the  character  of  this  house.  Where  do  you 
think  you  are  ? 

S.  Where  there  is  plenty  of  what  I  want.  Come,  lose 
no  more  time,  or  my  beast  will  think  he  has  fjillen  among 
animals  no  better  than  himself 

Mr.  P.  This  is  too  bad,  sir.  I  am  unused  to  such 
treatment.     Do  you  take  my  house  for  an  inn,  sir? 

S.    I  do. 

Mr.  P.  Be  it  known  to  you  then,  that  it  is  a  private 
house,  and  not  an  inn.  We  entertain  no  travellers,  no 
passengers  here,  sir. 

S.     How  long  have  you  lived  here  ? 

Mr.  P.  About  a  month.  The  former  occupant  died, 
and  I  bought  the  house  of  his  lieirs. 

S.     How  long  had  he  lived  here  ? 

Mr.  P.     A  year  or  two  ;  —  he  was  accidentally  killed. 

S.     Who  Uved  here  before  him  ? 

Mr.  P.     His  father. 

S.     And  who  lived  here  before  him  ? 

Mr.  P.  Hundreds,  for  aught  I  know.  What  do  you 
mean  by  asking  these  questions  ? 

S.    Only  to  show  that  you  are  under  a  mistake  and  not  I. 

Mr.  P.  What  do  you  mean  ?  That  I  do  not  know 
the  character  of  my  own  house, 

S.  Even  so.  A  house  that  changes  its  inhabitants  so 
often,  and  receives  such  a  perpetual  succession  of  guests, 
can  be  nothing  but  an  inn,  whatever  other  name  you  may 
give  it. 


48  fowle's  hundred  dialogues,- 


XXIV.     HONOR  AND  SHAME. 


LITTLE    MARY,    HER    MOTHER,    AND    SARAH. 

Mary.  Mother,  may  I  go  to  Sarah  Lovejoy's  party, 
this  evening  ? 

Mrs.  Puff.     I  prefer  that  you  should  stay  at  home. 

M.  Why,  mother  ?  All  the  girls  are  going,  and  I  love 
Sarah  dearly. 

Mrs.  P.  I  prefer  that  you  should  not  go.  You  must 
find  more  respectahle  companions. 

M.  Dear  mother,  is  not  Sarah  respectable?  I  am  sure 
her  house  looks  as  well,  inside  and  out,  as  ours  does, 
though  you  never  visit  there. 

Mrs.  P.  That  may  be;  but  as  Sarah's  mother  once 
"  lived  out,"  no  lady  can  visit  her.  So  you  will  be  careful 
to  stay  at  home ;  and,  if  any  one  calls,  say  that  I  shall 
return  immediately.     {She  goes  out.) 

M.  {alone.)  She  has  lived  out  ?  Out  doors,  I  suppose  ; 
poor  woman  I  Well,  I  should  pity  and  not  despise  her 
for  that.  O  dear,  I  wish  I  could  live  out  doors,  and  live 
as  other  people  do !  I  must  not  wear  a  hood,  because 
some  poor  girl  wears  one  ;  I  must  not  laugh  aloud,  because 
genteel  folks  never  laugh;  I  must  walk  just  so,  and 
never  run,  because  only  vulgar  folks  run;  I  must  not  go 
to  Sunday  School,  because  no  genteel  children  go  there ; 
and  I  must  not  set  my  foot  in  my  dear  Sarah's  house, 
because  lier  good  mother  once  lived  out  doors.  O  dear ' 
O  dear  I  {Enter  Sarah.) 

Sarah.  Come,  Mary,  we  are  all  waiting  for  you.  We 
shall  have  a  grand  time.  Why,  how  solemn  you  look ' 
Dear  me,  whsit  can  the  matter  be  ?  Come,  put  on  your 
things,  and  we'll  soon  put  some  smiles  on  your  face. 

M.     Mother  says  I  must  not  go  to  your  house. 

S.     Why?     Pray,  what  has  happened? 

M.     She  says  your  mother  once  lived  out  doors, 

S.     Out  what ! 

M.     Out  doors  ;  and  it  is  not  proper  for  me  to  visit  you 


49 

S.  What  can  it  mean  ?  My  mother  never  li\  ed  out 
doors,  any  more  than  yours.  She  was  once  poor,  but  she 
never  wanted  a  home.  There  must  be  some  mistake. 
But  here  comes  your  mother,  and  I  shall  ask  her  what  it 
all  means.  {Enter  Mrs.  Puff.) 

S.  Mrs.  PufF,  what  does  Mary  mean  by  saying  my 
mother  lived  out  doors  ? 

Mrs.  P.  [aside  to  Mary.)  Have  you  been  repeating 
what  I  told  you,  Mary  ?  (Tb  Sarah.)  I  never  told  her 
so  ;  she  misunderstood  me. 

*S.     Then  she  may  go  with  me,  may  n't  she  ? 

Mrs.  P.     I  prefer  not  to  have  her  go. 

S.  What  did  you  tell  Mary  about  my  mother?  Yoxi 
must  have  told  her  something. 

M.     Ma,  you  certainly  did  say  she  had  lived  (mt. 

Mrs.  P.  I  did,  but  not  out  of  doors.  If  she  had  only 
lived  out  of  doors,  I  should  not  care,  lor  poverty  itself  is 
no  disgrace. 

M.  What  did  she  live  out  of,  mother,  if  not  out  of 
doors  ? 

Mrs.  P.  (Pettishly.)  Out  at  service,  you  simpleton. 
Sarah,  you  had  better  go  home  ;  and  Mary,  you  had  better 
go  to  bed. 

M.  Mother,  dear,  is  it  a  greater  crime  to  work  when 
you  are  poor,  than  to  be  idle  and  dependent  ? 

Mrs.  P.  No,  not  a  crime ;  but  a  servant  can  never 
make  a  lady. 

M.  Why,  mother,  I  heard  father  say,  once,  that  most 
ladies  would  never  be  made,  if  their  servants  did  not 
mgike  them ;  and  that  servants  generally  would  make 
better  ladies  than  ladies  would  make  servants.  Now, 
dear  mother,  what  does  make  a  lady  ? 

Mrs.  P.     Poh  !  nothing,  nothing. 

M.     Are  you  made  of  nothing,  mother  ? 

Mrs.  P.  No,  no ;  your  simplicity  has  confused  me. 
There,  go  off  to  the  party,  and  let  me  hear  no  more  about 
it.  ( The  children  seize  each  other  by  th^  ivaist,  and  run  out. ) 
After  all,  the  true  lady  is  she  who  rises  above  her  condition, 
and  not  she  who  would  never  rise,  should  fortune  prove 
unkind.     I  can  not  be  fashionable  if  I  try  ever  so  hard. 


50  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

XXy.     THE  AEITBIVjEIICIAN. 

JOHN    AND   GEORGE. 

George,  {with  a  slate  and  pencil.)  If  there  is  any  thing 
J  hate,  John,  it  is  ariihmetic. 

John.  Hate  is  a  hard  word,  George.  Pray  tell  me 
what  has  happened  to  make  you  hate  what  I  so  dearly 
love. 

G.  I  can't  make  head  or  tail  ojf  this  sum,  and  I  believe 
it  is  put  wrong  on  purpose  to  bother  me. 

J.     Read  it,  and  let  me  see  if  I  can  help  you. 

G.  (Reach.)  "  If  a  leg  of  veal  weighs  fifteen  pounds, 
what  will  it  come  to  at  twelve  cents  a  pound,  if  a  large 
portion  of  it  is  fat?"  There,  was  there  ever  any  thing 
so  absurd  ? 

/.  Why,  what  is  the  trouble  ?  what  is  the  difficulty  ? 
It  seems  simple  enough. 

G.  I  could  manage  the  leg  well  enough,  if  it  was  not 
for  that  plaguy  fat 

J.  Why  does  the  fat  trouble  you,  any  more  than  the 
lean  ? 

G.  Why,  don't  you  see?  It  does  not  say  how  much 
fat  there  was.     I  gue^s  you  are  as  dull  as  I  am. 

/.     It  is  no  matter  about  the  fat,  George. 

G.  Wliy,  you  goose,  don't  you  see  tliat  a  large  portion 
0^  the  leg  was  fat,  and  who  can  tell  how  many  pounds  a 
laruo  portion  is  ? 

J.  Let  us  gel  at  it  by  trying  another  question.  If  a 
whole  pig  weighs  twenty  pounds,  how  much  will  he  come 
to  at  five  cents  a  pound  ? 

G.  Why,  to  five  times  twenty,  or  a  hundred  cents. 
'^'hat's  plain  enough. 

/.  Well,  now,  if  a  part  of  the  pig  is  bone,  will  that 
alter  the  cost  of  him? 

G.     No  — but  then  you  see  this  is  fat,  and  not  bone. 

J.  Well,  suppose  the  pig  is  made  up  partly  of  bone 
and  partly  of  flesh,  and  the  whole  pig  weighs  twenty 
pounds  — 


5\ 

G.  Yes,  but  don't  you  see,  this  is  not  bone  or  flersh, 
but  fat.     You  are  duller  than  I  am*. 

/.  Suppose,  then,  that  the  pig  consists  of  bone,  and 
flesh,  and  fat,  and  weighs  twenty  pounds,  how  much 
v/oiild  he  come  to  at  five  cents  a  pound  ? 

G.  Why  that  is  just  like  the  leg  of  veal ;  who  can 
tell  how  much  bone,  or  lean,  or  fat  there  is  ? 

/     Georue,  you  r^ust  study  algebra. 

G.     What  for? 

/.  That  deals  in  unknown  quantities,  and  may  help 
you. 

G.     I  woulg^' rather  study  any  thing  than  arithmetic. 

/.  Let  Ct^  bring  the  question  home.  How  much  would 
you  weigh,  George,  if  you  weighed  just  fifty  pounds,  and 
a  large  portion  of  you  were  fat  ? 

G.     How  is  that  John  ?     Ask  me  that  again,  will  you  ? 

J.  (shwly.)  How  much  would  you  weigh,  if  you 
weighed  fifty  pounds,  and  a  large  portion  of  you  were 
fat? 

G.  Why,  just  the  same !  But  then,  if  I  were  sold  as 
the  veal  was,  how  much  would  the  fat  come  to  ? 

/.  If  you  were  sold  in  the  lump,  at  five  cents  a  pound, 
what  odds  would  it  make  whether  a  large  or  a  small  por- 
tion of  you  were  fat  or  lean,  meat  or  bone  ? 

G.  {He  thinks  a  minute,  then  drops  his  head  and  hoks 
sheepish,  and  says,)  It  was  not  fixir  to  put  that  in  to  bother 
a  fellow  so.     But,  John,  — 

/.     What?  , 

G.     Don't  tell  any  body  of  it,  will  you?. 

/.  I  will  not  tell,  if  you  will  promise  me  not  to,  hate 
arithmetic  any  more. 

G  Done !  for  any  one  who  should  hear  of  my  leg  of 
veal,  would  naturally  set  me  down  for  a  —  ccdf. 


52 


HUNDRED    DIALOGUES. 


XXVI.    BUDS  OF  PROMISE. 

RALPH,    JAMES,    SAMUEL,    JOHN. 

Balph.  James,  you  did  wrong  to  strike  that  little  boy 
witli  that  great  stick. 

James.  I  shall  strike  whom  I  please,  I'm  not  a  sneak, 
to  let  a  fellow  strike  me,  without  returning  blow  for  blow. 

Ralph.  The  most  quarrelsome  are  sometimes  the 
greatest  sneaks,  as  you  call  us.  I  own  that  I  endeavor 
by  my  own  example  and  advice  to  stop  ah  fighting, 
every  where. 

James.  Fiddle-de-dee  I  Why  don't  you  own  yourself 
a  coward  at  once,  that  can  not  stand  a  blow. 

Sam.  Tliat  would  be  untrue.  Ralph  bore  his  pain 
most  bravely  when  he  was  so  badly  burned  in  saving 
little  Jessie  from  the  flames. 

James.  What  will  such  bravery  be  good  for  ?  What 
do  you  mean  to  do,  Ralph,  when  you  become  a  man,  if 
one  who  never  fights  can  ever  be  a  man. 

Ralph.  I  mean  to  be  a  missionary,  and  preach  the 
Word  of  Life  in  heathen  lands. 

John.  I'll  carry  you  thither  in  my  ships,  for  I  intend 
to  be  a  merchant  prince,  and  send  iny  fleets  to  the  east 
and  west. 

Sam.  Ships  are  too  apt  to  sink,  to  suit  my  rising 
hopes.  I'll  be  a  judge,  the  most  profound  and  learn-ed 
judge  that  ever  was,  or  ever  will  be. 

John.  You  will  not  be  an  uprii^ht  judge,  if  you  stoop 
so;  {Samuel  straightens  z<;/>,)  but  what  a  change  you'll 
undergo  before  that  day  can  come. 

Sam.  Poh,  Mr.  Merchant  Prince,  this  moment  I  can 
see  myself  condemning  one  of  your  ships,  for  smuggling 
silk,  or  steahug  the  Golden  Fleece.  Then  what  a  solemn 
judgment  I'll  pronounce  upon  the  prisoners  when  I  sen- 
tience them.     The  jury  all  will  rise,  the  crowd  be  hushed 

as  death,  the  criminal  will  melt 

James.  If  he  melts,  he'll  run  aivay,  before  you  finish; 
Now,  what  wlute-livered  geese  you  will  remain,  while  I, 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  53 

who  mean  to  be  a  warrior,  and  perhaps  a  king,  will  make 
the  world  resound  with  wondrous  feats  at  arms. 

Jolm.  You  forgot  how  frightened  you  were  once, 
when  robbers  broke  into  your  father's  house. 

James.     I  was  afraid  my  father  w'ould  be  killed. 

John.  And  to  prevent  the  murder,  hid  beneath  the 
bed  I     {All  laugh  heartily. ) 

James.  Laugh  on,  but  when  you  see  my  name  on  the 
historic  page,  you  will  be  proud  to  say,  "  He  was  my 
schoolmate,  he  I"  and  I  shall  make  you  all  immortal. 

Rahoh.  Yes,  and,  as  the  world  may  like  to  hear  some 
anecdotes  of  the  great  chieftain,  I  will  rehearse  in  glowing 
terms  the  story  of  that  robbery. 

James.  Be  silent,  Ralph  !  how  foolishly  you  talk.  I 
shall  Achilles  take,  or  Hector,  or  the  Black  Prince,  for 
my  model,  for  those  ancient  heroes  fought  it  hand  to  hand 
hke  lions.  Imagine  me  the  Black  Prince  now,  commg  to 
chastise  your  insolence.  (^5  he  adoances  hastily  he  trips 
over  his  staff  and  falls,  and  ivee'ps  most  bitterly. ) 

Ralph.  Though  a  missionary,  I  may  lift  up  the  fallen 
warrior.     The  Black  Prince  looks  pale  ! 

JoJm.  Though  only  a  Merchant  Prince,  and  far  from 
Black,  I'll  lend  my  brother  prince  a  helping  hand,  for,  no 

trifling    wound    would     make     the    Black    Prince 

boo- h  00  ! 

Sam.  Hector  and  Achilles,  when  they  fell,  got  up 
themselves,  the  poets  say. 

James.     'Tis  false  I  they  never  fell. 

Sam.  O,  did'nt  they?  They  died  though,  both  of 
them,  and  I  suppose  they  did  so  standing  bolt  upright. 

James.  Well,  you  may  laugh,  but  none  but  warriors 
can  be  Presidents  henceforth,  and  when  I  am  one,  as 
one  I  will  be  yet,  I  will  repay  these  insults. 

Ralph.  The  bell  has  rung  for  school.  Will  the  Black 
Prmce  lead  in  ?     Come  Merchant  Prince,  and  Judge. 

John.  Ay,  clear  the  way,  and  careful  be  in  school  not 
to  inform  the  master  what  four  buds  of  glorious  promise 
are  now^  swelling  beneath  his  rod. 

5* 


54  FOWLE  S    HUNDRED    DIALOGUES. 

XXVII.    PLAYING  SCHOOL. 

SOLOMON,    JAMES    AND    MOSES. 

James.  Come,  Sol,  let's  play  school.  You  be  master, 
ai  d  Moses  and  I  will  ba  scholars. 

iS.  You  mean,  you  will  be  pupils,  I  don't  believe  you 
will  ever  become  scholars. 

Moses      Not  under  you.  Master  Solomon  I 

S.     Well,  Jim 

James.     My  name  is  James,  sir. 

S.  O,  right,  no  master  should  call  his  pupils  by  nick- 
names. Master  James,  take  your  arithmetic,  and  do  the 
first  sum  in  the  fifth  section,  and  .bring  it  to  me. 

James.  I  will,  sir.  [He  takes  slate  and  book  and  goes 
to  ivork. ) 

jS.  Moses,  come  here  I  {Moses  stands  up  very  stiffly.) 
What  have  you  studied,  Moses? 

Moses.     Grammar,  sir. 

S.     What  is  Grammar,  Moses  ? 

Moses.     I  don't  know,  sir. 

S.     How  can  you  study  it  then  ? 

Moses.  By  the  book,  sir.  All  the  words  are  there  ju^^ 
as  you  have  to  say  them. 

S.     But  words  are  not  ideas, 

Moses.  Grammar  treats  of  words,  sir,  and  has  nothing 
to  do  with  ideas. 

iS.  O,  very  well,  go  and  learn  six  pages,  word  for 
word ;  for,  if  the  words  contain  any  ideas,  and  you  con- 
tain the  words,  you  must  have  the  ideas  also.  Have  you 
done  your  problem,  James  ? 

James.     Yes,  sir. 

S.     Well,  what  is  it?     Read  it. 

James.  {Reading  from  his  slate.)  If  3  tons  of  straw 
cost  thirty  dollars,  what  will  four  tons  cost? 

S.     Well,  what  is  the  answer  ? 

/.     Forty  dollars,  sir. 

S.     Wrong,  entirely  wrong. 

James.  I  have  done  it  three  or  four  times,  sir  ;  will  you 
please  to  look  it  over  ? 


55 

S.  Ah,  you  troublesome  fellow  I  Let  me  see.  ( He 
compares  the  book  and  slate,  and  then  says,)  Here,  you  care- 
less blockhead,  see  here,  you  have  written  it,  "If  three 
tons  of  straw  cost  thirty  dollars,"  and  in  the  book  it  reads, 
"  If  three  tons  of  English  straw  cost  thirty  dollars,"  — 
Go  and  copy  it  correctly,  and  do  it  over  again. 

/     Master,  that  don't  aifect  the  answer. 

;S.  Hold  your  tono:ue,  sir.  Go,  and  do  as  I  bid  you. 
Come  here,  Moses.     What  is  a  Substantive.  Moses  ^ 

M.  "A  Substantive  Noun  is  the  name  of  any  thing 
that  has  a  notion  ;  as,  man  —  virtue  —  London.' ' 

S.  Well,  mention  some  noun  to  show  that  you  under- 
stand the  definition. 

M.  I  can't  do  it,  sir,  there's  nothing  on  airth  or  under 
the  airth  like  man  —  virtue  —  London.  I  have  no  idea 
what  it  means,  sir. 

S.  It  may  be  good  grammar  without  any  meaning. 
James,  how  comes  on  the  straw  ? 

/.  None  the  better  for  being  English,  sir.  I  see  no 
error. 

S.  O  dear,  if  you  can't  show  your  learning,  stand  up 
and  show  your  manners.  There,  now  make  your  best 
bows,  and  go  home. 

Moses  and  James.  Hooraw  for  old  Sol!  English  gram- 
mar and  English  straw,  forever ! 


XXVIII.    BIRD  CATCHING. 

A    FATHER    AND    HIS    LITTLE    BOY   FREDERIC. 

Fred.     Father,  I  wish  you  would  buy  me  a  cage. 
Father.     A  cage,  Fred.  ?  what  do  you  want  of  a  cage? 
Fred.     I  want  it  to  put  my  bird  m. 
F.     Your  bird  ?  I  did  not  know  you  had  one. 
Fred.     I  have  n't  got  one  yet,  but  I  am  going  to  have 
one. 

F.     How  are  you  going  to  get  it,  Fred.  ? 


56 

Fred.  O,  I  know  ;  John  Long  has  told  me  of  a  capital 
way  to  catch  birds,  and  I  mean  to  catch  lots  of  'em.  I'll 
catch  one  foi  you,  father,  if  you  would  like  to  have  one. 

F.  I  can  not  spare  time  to  take  care  of  one,  my  boy, 
and  I  have  some  doubts  whether  it  is  humane  to  confine 
the  little  things  in  prison.  But  I  am  curious  to  know 
how  you  are  going  to  catch  so  many  of  them  ;  I  always 
found  it  very  hard  work  when  I  was  a  boy. 

Fred.  O,  it  is  perfectly  easy,  father  ;  you  have  only  to 
cjet  close  to  the  bird,  and  put  a  little  salt  on  its  tail. 

F.     Well,  what  will  he  do  then? 

Fred.     O,  he'll  be  caught  right  away,  you  see. 

F.     No,  I  don't  see  any  such  thing,  my  boy. 

Fred.  Why,  father,  it's  as  sure  as  a  gun.  John  Long 
told  me  that  when  I  got  near  enough  to  put  the  salt  on 
his  tail,  he  wouldn't  be  able  to  move  an  inch,  any  more 
than  if  he  was  dead.  Now  don't  you  see  how  it  is  done, 
father  ? 

F.     Did  John  Long  ever  catch  any  birds  so  himself? 

Fred.  No,  father ;  but  he  says  he  knows  it  can  be 
done. 

F.  Turn  your  back  to  me  Fred.,  and  let  me  put  a  little 
salt  on  your  coat  tail,  if  you  have  any,  {he  has  on  a  boy's 
jacket,)  to  see  if  it  will  prevent  you  from  running  away. 

Fred.  Ha,  father,  you  know  it  wont,  unless  you  catch 
hold  of  my  coat. 

F.     Now  you  have  the  secret,  Fred. 

Fred.     How  so,  father  ?  I  don't  see  any  secret  about  it 

F.  If  I  get  near  enough  to  salt  your  coat  tail,  I  may 
as  well  take  hold  of  the  coat  at  once,  and  hold  you. 

Fred.  O  dear,  I  see.  If  I  get  near  enough  to  put  salt  on 
a  bird's  tail,  I  can  grab  him  at  once,  but  then  7  shall 
catch  him,  and  not  the  salt. 

F.  You  see  sugar  will  do  as  well  as  salt,  my  boy, 
but  whether  you  use  salt  or  sugar,  one  other  thing  is  very 
essential. 

Fred.     What  is  that,  father  ?     Do  tell  me. 

F.  It  is  necessary  that  the  bird  should  agree  to  stand 
still.     Will  one  cage  be  enough,  Fred.  ? 

Fred.  Father,  I  guess  I'll  wait  till  my  coat  tail  grows- 
It  is  evidently  not  long  enough  yet. 


fowle'o  hundred  dialogues.  57 


NO.  XXIX.    THE  GHOST. 

Saul,    a  large  boy,  manager  of  a  theatre. 
y  ^^'    >  two  of  the  actors^  met  for  rehearsal, 

Saul.  Come,  boys,  are  you  ready  for  the  play  ?  John, 
you  were  to  be  the  bear,  what  have  you  done  to  quahfy 
yourself? 

Ned.  Nature  has  done  every  thing  for  him.  John  will 
make  a  perfect  bear  without  any  traming. 

Johfi.  You,  Ned,  are  to  enact  the  gentleman,  and  I  am 
sure,  we  can't  say  nature  has  done  any  thing  for  you. 

S.  Come,  come,  that  will  not  do.  Answer  me,  John, 
what  have  you  done  ? 

/.  I  have  borrowed  a  buffalo  skin,  and  it  will  do  first 
rate,  only  it  has  no  head,  tail  and  legs. 

S.  No  matter,  you  must  tell  the  company  that  the 
head  and  legs  that  they  see  are  yours,  and  not  the  bear's. 

N.  Sometimes  it  flatters  the  audience  to  let  them 
make  such  discoveries  themselves.  I  think  you  may 
trust  them  on  this  occasion. 

jS.  Well,  next  comes  the  gentleman.  Ned,  how  shall 
you  work  it  ?  You  know  you  are  to  be  lost  m  the  lorest, 
and  the  bear  attacks  you,  and  eats  you  up. 

iV".  As  he  can't  do  that  before  the  company,  how  will 
the  company  know  it  ? 

S.     The  bear  must  come  in  and  tell  them  all  about  it. 

J.  What  language  shall  I  use  ?  I  do  not  speak  the 
bear  lingo  fluently. 

N.  That  never  will  do,  no  bear  ever  told  any  such 
story,  and  the  audience  will  laugh  when  they  ought  to 
cry.  We  must  do  as  Shakspeare  did  in  a  similar  dilemma. 
He  makes  the  ghost  of  a  murdered  king  appear  and  relate 
the  dreadful  deed. 

/.  But,  if  I  have  eaten  him  up,  there  is  nothing  to 
make  a  ghost  of 

S.  No  matter.  Ghosts  are  spirits,  you  know,  and 
made  of  next  to  nothing 


58 

N.  Shall  I.  have  to  spell  all  I  have  to  say,  as  the  rap- 
ping spirits  do  ? 

jS.  No,  that  takes  too  long,  you  must  speak  out  like  a 
man.  Let  me  hear  you  begin  the  speech  if  you  have 
learned  it. 

(Ned  takes  a  few  steps  quickly,  as  if  entering.) 

S.  O,  that  will  never  do.  No  ghost  ever  moves  faster 
than  a  funeral  procession.  Go  out  and  try  it  again.  You 
must  be  stiff,  too,  stiff  as  a  corpse,  and  don't  move  hand 
or  head,  knee  or  elbow,  any  more  than  if  you  were  wooden. 
(Ned  comes  in  tvith  slow  and  solemn  step,  and  when  he  stops, 
John  says  — ) 

J.  That  never  will  do.  Nobody  ever  saw  a  black 
ghost.     You  must  have  a  sheet. 

N.  Where  could  a  ghost  get  a  white  sheet,  in  a  bear's 
stomach  ? 

S.     You  must  have  one.    Here,  take  this  white  curtain. 
A  ghost  without  a  sheet,  is  a  tree  without  a  shadow. 
Wrap  yourself  up,  and  try  it  again,  Ned. 
{Ned  stalks  in^  and  the  others  start  as  if  alarmed.     Then 
Ned  says  in  a  shrill,  squeaking  voice  — ) 

N.  "  Start  not,  O  mortals,  at  the  dismal  tones  of  the 
underworld,  where  rest  my  marrow-bones," — 

S  Pshaw,  Ned,  that  wouldn't  do  for  the  ghost  of  an 
infant  cricket.  Don't  you  know,  my  dear  fellow,  that  all 
ghosts  have  bad  colds,  and  speak  in  the  hoarsest  tones  ? 

N.  How  do  you  know  that  ?  I  guess  if  a  bear  had 
eaten  you,  you  would  be  glad  to  speak  in  any  tone. 

J.     It  is  settled,  that  all  ghosts,  male  and  female,  talk 
base,  ever  so  far  below  any  scale.     So  take  your  position 
again,  and  rough  up. 
\Ned  takes  a  step  or  two,  they  start,  and  he  begins  again. ) 

N.  "  Start  not,  O  mortals,  at  the  dismal  tones  of  the 
under  world,  where  rest  my  marrow-bones,  for  I've  a 
tale  "  — 

/.     That's  more  than  my  buffalo  robe  can  say. 

N.     John,  if  you  interrupt  me  again  — 

S.  Come,  no  wrangling.  John,  recollect  that  you  are 
a  bear,  and  have  not  a  word  to  say.  Bears  may  make 
ghosts,  but  they  cannot  act  them.  Eating  forty  men 
wouldn't  make  a  man  of  you.     Ned,  you  needn't  finish 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  59 

the  tale.     Remember  to  flour  your  lace  a  little.     When 
you  have  told  your  story,  we  will  give  chase  to  the  bear, 
and  avenge  your  untimely  death  by  slaying  him 
/.     I'll  die  slick,  I  tell  yoii,  I'll  growl  — 
iV.     You  know  how  to  growl,  everybody  knows. 
S.     The  audience  will  be  greatly  moved  ;    for,  if  this 
rehearsal  affects  these  spectators,  {looking  at  the  company,) 
the  effect  of  the    play  will  be   tremendous.     Be   ready 
when  the  clock  strikes  seven. 


XXX.     THE  COLLEGIAN. 

MR.    AND    MRS.    HOMESPUN,    AND    ICHABOD,    WHO    HAS     JUST    RE- 
TURNED   FROM    COLLEGE. 

Mrs.  FT.  How  can  you  think  so  meanly  of  Ichabod,  Mr. 
Homespun.     He  seems  to  know  every  thing. 

Mr.  H.  I  tell  you,  wife,  that  a  good  farmer  was  spoiled 
when  he  went  to  college. 

Mrs.  H.  More  likely  a  great  man  was  made.  If  he 
had  not  been  sent  there,  he  would  not  have  known 
nothing. 

Mr.  II.     He  knows  it  now,  wife. 

Mrs  H.     Why,  he  has  Latin  at  his  tongue's  end. 

Mr.  H.  He'll  keep  it  there,  it  will  never  enter  his 
mouth.  I  tell  you  wife,  I  wish  I  had  kept  him  at  home. 
He  is  too  proud  to  "work  now. 

Mrs.  H.  You  can't  expect  a  man,  who  has  been  at 
college,  to  work  for  his  living.  He  must  go  into  a  profes- 
sion. 

Mr.  H.     Does  he  tell  you  what  profession  he  prefers? 

Mrs.  H.     Yes,  he  prefers  the  law. 

Mr.  H.     Why  so  ?     I  like  that  the  least. 

Mrs.  H.  He  says  he  has  no  grace  for  theology,  and 
DO  taste  for  medicine.      {Enter  Ichabod.) 

Ich.  "How  are  you  father?  Mother,  how  is  it  with 
you  ?  What  do  you  look  so  sober  about  ?  Nq  eleventh 
cousin  is  dead,  I  hope. 


60  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

Mr.  H.   We  are  more  troubled  about  the  living. 

Mrs.  H  We  were  talking  about  your  choice  of  a  pro- 
fession, Ichabod. 

Ich.     Well,  what  about  it. 

Mr  H.  My  son,  do  you  know  how  much  is  required 
to  make  a  good  lawyer ;  how  many  years  of  hard  study, 
and  how  many  pounds  of  hard  gold  and  silver? 

Ich.  Poll,  father,  brass  is  better  than  gold  or  silver, 
and  I  have  laid  up  a  large  stock  of  that. 

Mr.  H,  Yes,  Icliabod,  but  you  must  know  all  about 
common  law,  and  uncommon  law  ;  and  you  must  be  able 
tu  Irigiiten  men  from  telUng  the  truth,  and  you  must 
make  falsehoods  appear  to  be  truths,  and  you  must  un- 
derstand logic,  Ichabod. 

Mrs.  H.     What  is  logic,  husband  ? 

Ich.     Logic,  mother  ?    Logic  is  the  right  use  of  reason. 

Mrs.  H,  Well,  my  son,  will  you  just  give  us  an  ex- 
ample, that  will  satisfy  your  father,  for  I  have  been  try- 
ing to  take  your  part  against  him. 

Ich.  It  is  perfectly  easy.  Now  here  are  these  dol- 
lars that  you  gave  me  to  set  me  up  in  business.  My 
whole  stock  in  trade,  you  see.  How  many  are  there  ? 
{He  hnlds  wp  tivo.) 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  H.     Two,  two,  that  is  clear  enough. 

Ich.  I  will  prove  to  you  that  there  are  three,  or  I'll 
go  back  to  the  plough. 

Mrs.  H.  Well,  do  now,  for  I  long  to  see  your  father's 
mind  settled. 

Ich.  {Putting  one  dollar  into  his  mother's  hand.)  How 
many  dollars  do  I  give  you,  mother? 

Mrs.  H.     One,  my  son. 

Ick.  ( Taking  the  dollar  from  his  mother  and  giving  both 
to  his  father.)     How  many  do  I  give  you,  father? 

Mr."!!.     Two,  Ichabod,  two. 

Ich.     How  many  did  I  give  you,  mother? 

Mrs.  II     One. 

Ich.     And  YOU,  father? 

Mr.  H.     Two. 

Ich.     Weil,  are  not  two  and  one  three  ? 

Mrs.  H.  Well,  that  is  curious ;  Ichabod,  you  art  a 
genius. 


DIALOGUES.  61 

Mr.  H.  You  certainly  are,  Ichabod,  and  one  dollar 
will  be  full  enough  to  set  you  up  in  business.  So  mother 
{giving  her  a  dollar)  you  shall  have  that  dollar ;  I  will 
pocket  this,  {he  puts  the  other  in  his  pocket)  and  Ichabod, 
my  son,  you  shall  have  —  the  third. 


XXXI.     THE  PERFECT  MERCHANT. 

MR.  PERKINS    AND  HIS  SONS,  JOHN,  MOSES,    ROBERT,  DAVID, 
AND  HENRY. 

Mr.  Per.  Well,  boys,  you  all  intend  to  be  merchants 
one  of  these  days,  and  I  should  like  to  know  what  qual- 
ity you  think  most  essential  to  success.  Tell  me,  now, 
what  you  think  will  make  you  perfect  merchants. 

John.  I  know  what  it  is,  father.  No  merchant  can 
be  any  thing  without  Enterprise.  When  I  am  a  merchant, 
I  shall  cut  a  dash,  I  tell  you. 

Mr.  P.     Those  who  cut  a  dash  usually  fail. 

John.  O,  I  don't  mean  that  kind  of  dash.  I  mean 
to  find  out  new  places  for  trade,  and  make  business.  My 
ships  shall  be  superior  to  all  others,  and  nobody  shall 
know  where  they  have  been  till  they  come  home  full  of 
money. 

Mr.  P.  Very  well,  John,  this  is  all  very  well,  but  let 
us  hear  what  Moses  has  to  say. 

Moses.  I  shall  not  attempt  to  cut  a  dash,  but  shall 
modestly  carry  on  a  small  and  safe  business.  My  rent 
and  my  other  expenses  shall  not  eat  up  all  my  profits, 
and  by  saving  and  taking  care  of  small  matters,  I  shall 
be  ^^ure  to  grow  rich  by  strict  Economy. 

Mr.  P.  It  is  probably  true,  that  more  get  rich  by 
avmg  than  by  any  other  way.  But  let  us  hear  v  hat 
Robert  has  to  say. 

Robert.  I  think,  father,  I  should  depend  upon  m/ 
hidustry 

John.     Well,  I  mean  to  be  industrious  too. 


62 

Rob.  Yes,  but  you  mean  to  do  business  on  a  large 
scale,  and  to  run  great  risks.  I  shall  run  no  risks,  but  shall 
make  the  very  bees  blush,  I  shall  be  so  much  more  busy 
than  the  busiest  of  them. 

Mos.  What  will  you  be  so  busy  about,  if  you  have 
no  business,^ to  do  ? 

Rob.     I  will  make  business. 

John.  Yes,  as  Mr.  Fussy  does.  His  apprentice  tells 
me,  that,  when  no  customer  is  in,  they  make  believe 
wait  on  customers  ;  and,  when  they  are  tired  of  that,  Mr. 
Fussy  strows  dirt  on  the  floor  and  sets  him  to  clean  it  up, 
01  throws  goods  over  the  counters  for  him  to  put  up  on 
the  shelves. 

Rob.  When  I  have  customers,  I  shall  be  very  atten- 
tive to  them.  When  I  have  no  person  in,  I  shall  put  the 
shop  in  order,  buy  goods,  and  prepare  for  business  If 
no  customers  come  then,  I  shall  try  to  find  some.  If  the 
honey  does  not  come  to  the  hive,  the  bee  must  go  out 
after  it. 

Mr.  P.  You  stand  your  ground  well,  Robert.  But, 
David,  let  us  hear  how  you  intend  to  manage.  What 
do  you  think  the  most  important  quality  to  insure  success 
in  business  ? 

David.  Honesty,  father.  The  old  proverb  says, 
"Honesty  is  the  best  policy,"  and  I  shall  try  it. 

John.  Well,  you  don't  suppose  we  mean  to  be  dishon- 
est, do  you  ?    A  man  can  be  enterprising  and  be  honest  too, 

Moses,  Economical  people  are  generally  the  mos^ 
honest. 

Rob:     Industrious  people  need  not  be  cheats. 

David.  That  is  all  very  well.  But,  very  enterpris- 
mg  men  can  not  be  very  punctual  men,  they  depend  so 
much  on  others.  Economical  people  are  often  so  close  that 
they  slide  into  meanness,  and  then  into  unfair  dealing, 
while  the  industrious,  or  bustling,  seldom  keep  correct  ac- 
counts. Every  man,  who  deals  with  me,  shall  feel  th-it 
he  can  trust  me ;  that  my  word  is  better  than  any  bond  ; 
that  he  can  never  lose  by  me. 

Mr.  P.  Very  well,  David,  stick  to  your  plan,  and  you 
will  deserve  success,  whether  you  obtain  it  or  not  Eut^ 
Henry,  we  must  hear  wliat  you  have  to  say. 


63 

Hen.  "WeW,  father,  I  don't  see  why  all  these  qualities 
may  not  be  united  in  a  perfect  merchant.  I  mean  to  be 
enterprising  as  John,  economical  as  Moses,  busy  as  Rob- 
ert, and  honest  as  David.  But,  besides  this,  there  is  one 
other  thing  I  mean  to  be. 

Mr.  P.     What  is  that?     You  fix  your  standard  high. 

Hen.  I  mean  to  be  a  liberal  merchant.  No  man  I 
deal  with  shall  ever  say  I  am  mean  in  my  dealings.  No 
man  in  my  employ  shall  ever  say  he  is  not  well  paid  for 
his  labor.  No  good  cause  shall  ever  fail  w^hile  I  can 
help  it  on.  They  shall  not  say  on  my  tombstone,  "  He 
died  like  a  Prince,"  but,  they  shall  say  "He  lived  like  a 
Man." 

Mr.  P.  Well  done,  Henry  !  That  is  the  true  mer- 
chant, —  he  who  works  not  for  himself,  but  for  others,  and 
who  never  forgets  that  '*  it  profiteth  nothing  for  a  man  to 
gain  the  whole  world,  if,  in  doing  this,  he  loses  his  own 
soul,  or  even  contracts  and  belittles  it." 


XXXII.  THE  NEW  SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

MR.    FORWARD    AND    MR.    CONSERVE. 

Mr.  Forward.  Good  morning,  neighbor  Conserve.  How 
do  you  do? 

Mr.  Conserve.  I  should  do  well  enough,  if  other  men 
would  let  me  alone. 

Mr.  F.  What  troubles  you  now  ?  Has  anybody  been 
guilty  of  helping  a  neighbor,  or  benefiting  the  community  ? 

Mr.  C.  Have  you  heard  of  the  doings  of  the  School 
Committee  yesterday  ? 

Mr.  F.  What  doings?  They  areallmeni  am  wilUng 
to  trust. 

Mr.  G.  They  have  been  so  crazy  as  to  vote  to  build  a 
new  school-house. 

Mr.  F.  They  must  be  raving  mad,  surely,  to  do  so, 
when  the  old  school-house  only  lacks  windows  and  doors, 


64 

and  is  more  than  half  large  eiiougli  to  hold  the  pupils. 
They  must  be  crazy  to  think  of  giving  up  such  a  speci- 
men of  Gothic  architecture. 

M?'.  C.  You  may  laugh  at  their  doings,  bat  we  who 
pay  tlie  taxes  do  not  find  building  school-houses  such 
agreeable  work.  Besides,  Mr.  Forward,  I  have  associa 
tions  with  that  old  building  that  I  can  never  have  with 
any  new  one. 

Mr.  F.  You  may  say  as  much  of  an  old  pair  of  shoes 
that  pinched  you,  but  shall  you,  on  that  account,  never 
buy  new  ones? 

Mr.  C.  You  have  a  knack  at  turning  off  an  argument, 
My.  Forward,  but,  after  all,  it  is  a  serious  business  to  build 
a  new  school-house. 

Mr.  F.  It  is  certainly  a  very  serious  business  to  pro- 
vide for  the  proper  education  of  the  generation  that  is  to 
succeed  us,  but  I  think  it  is  a  far  more  serious  business 
not  to  provide  for  it. 

Mr.  C.  They  have  no  reason  to  complain,  if  they  fare 
as  well  as  their  fathers  did.  I  went  to  school  in  the  old 
house,  and  it  was  good  enough  for  me. 

Mr.  F.  Did  your  father  build  the  house  you  live  in,  Mr. 
Conserve  ? 

Mr.   C.     No,  he  lived  in  a  log  house. 

Mr.  F.  Why  didn't  you  continue  to  live  in  the  log 
house  ?  He,  no  doubt,  found  it  convenient,  and  had  pleas- 
ant associations  with  every  log  of  it. 

Mr.  C.  It  was  not  large  enough  for  my  family,  and  I 
wanted  just  such  a  building  for  my  cattle.  Besides,  father 
had  an  idea  that  the  old  house  was  not  healthful. 

Mr.  F.  I  suppose  the  fathers  of  the  town  thought  the 
old  school-house  too  small  for  their  growing  family,  and, 
if  too  small,  of  course,  unhealthy. 

Mr.  C.  Living  in  a  house  is  one  thing,  and  going  to 
school  is  another. 

Mr.  F.  That  is  certainly  true  ;  living  in  a  house  is  one 
tiling,  and  staying  in  that  old  school-house  is  another,  for 
this  is  dying  rather  than  living. 

Mr.   C.     Our  fathers  did  not  complain. 

Mr.  F.     Perhaps  not,  for  they  had  better  school-houses, 


65 

according  to  their  means  than  we  have,  and  thg  laws  of 
health  are  better  understood  now. 

Mr.  C.  So  yon  all  say,  but  men  are  not  half  so  robust 
now  as  they  were  then,  and  we  see  ten  sickly  boys  and 
girls  where  our  fathers  saw  one.  We  had  to  work  when 
I  was  young,  but  now  the  children  are  too  feeble  to  work. 

Mr.  F.  If  children  had  to  work  as  hard  now,  there 
would  be  less  to  fear  from  our  poor  school-houses.  But  to 
come  down  to  conunon  sense,  neighbor  Conserve,  do  you 
really  believe  that  children  or  men  can  Avork  as  well  in  a 
crowded  room,  as  in  one  not  crowded. 

Mr.  C.  Perhaps  not.  I  am  a  carpenter,  and  like  to 
have  room  enough  to  swing  my  arms  freely,  but  swinging 
one's  arms  and  using  one's  mind  are  very  different  things. 
I  could  think  in  a  flour  barrel. 

Mr.  F.  Very  well,  could  you  think  in  a  crowd,  as 
well  as  when  alone  ? 

Mr.  C  No,  no,  I  think  not,  but  if  children  are  to  be 
alone,  that  they  may  be  able  to  think,  we  may  dispense 
with  schools  altogether. 

Mr.  F.  It  is  not  necessary  to  be  alone,  if  we  are  so 
separated  as  not  to  be  exposed  to  constant  interruption 
But,  granting,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  that  one  can  do 
as  nuich  work  in  a  crowd,  will  it  be  done  as  well? 

Mr.  C.  That  depends  upon  what  it  is.  Some  things 
can  be  done  in  a  crowd  that  can't  be  done  elsewhere. 
Give  me  a  crowd  when  you  want  a  good  hooraw. 

Mr.  F.  Yes,  give  us  a  crowd  when  we  wish  to  make 
a  noise,  or  to  do  any  mischief  and  not  be  detected.  But, 
neighbor,  would  a  cat  live  as  long  shut  up  in  a  small  box 
as  in  a  large  one? 

Mr.  C.  That  depends  upon  whether  it  is  air  tight  or 
not. 

Mr.  F.  Very  well,  when  you  went  to  the  old  school- 
liouse,  it  was  not  air  tight,  for  there  was  a  large  fireplace 
which  ventilated  it.  But  now,  there  is  a  air-tight  and 
no  fireplace.  We  save  a  ton  of  coal  worth  five  dollars, 
and  buy  a  cord  of  physic  which  costs  nearer  five  hundred. 

Mr.  G.  Let  me  ask  you  one  question,  neighbor,  for 
you  have  asked  me  several.  Why  is  it  that  you,  who 
liave  no  children  to  be  benefited    by  the  school,  are  for 


66  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

hfivirig  a  new  house,  when  I,  v/ho  have  seven  children, 
am  opposed  to  it  ? 

Mr.  F.  I  do  not  think  I  am  more  liberal  or  more  hu- 
mane than  you  are,  neighbor,  but  I  have  been  led  to 
study  the  subject  perhaps  more  carefully.  My  associations 
with  the  old  school-house  are  as  strong  as  yours,  but  they 
are  the  associations  of  ignorance,  and  I  wish  the  present 
race  to  have  purer  associations,  and  do  not  think  they  will 
be  any  the  weaker  because  they  are  of  a  higher  cast.  I 
have  been  a  teacher,  too,  and  I  know  that  where  the  rconi 
is  large  and  well  ventilated,  the  furniture  neat  and  con- 
venient, the  apparatus  simple,  but  abundant,  the  school, 
compared  to  those  we  used  to  attend,  is  as  a  railroad  car 
to  an  old  stage-coach,  and  the  difference  of  progress  about 
in  the  same  proportion. 

Mr.  G.  Will  old  fashioned  teachers  be  able  to  carry- 
on  your  new  fangled  schools  ? 

Mr.  F.  Very  seldom.  You  must  have  skilful  engi- 
neers for  your  railroad,  and  not  trust  the  engine  to  old 
stage  drivers.  When  railroads  were  first  introduced, 
there  were  not  ten  engineers  in  the  country,  but  the  de- 
mand for  them  created  them,  and  so  it  will  be  with  teach- 
ers, old  things  will  become  new,  or  the  new  will  take  their 
place. 

Mr.  G.  1  believe  you  are  more  than  half  right,  but 
still  I  can  not  see  why  an  old  bachelor  should  take  so 
much  interest  in  the  welfare  of  other  people's  children. 

Mr.  F.  That  is  a  great  question,  and  puzzles  me 
sometinifs,  but  not  half  so  much  as  the  question,  wiry 
those  w.io  have  children  are  so  indifferent  about  tlieir 
comfort  and  happiness,  their  moral  and  intellectual  edu- 
cation 


FOWLe's    HUNDrwED    DIALOGUES.  67 


XXXTII.    THE  STANDING  ARMY. 

ALEXANDER.  MicAJAH,  «  shakcr  boy. 

GEORGE.  NED,  the  largest  boy. 

ROBERT.  OTHER  BOYS,  to  any  number. 

Alexander.  ( With  a  sivord)  Come,  boys,  let's  play  sol- 
dier ;    get  sticks,  and  mind  your  commander, 

George.  Yes,  boys,  this  is  Alexander  the  Great,  and 
he'll  cut  your  heads  off  if  you  don't  fight  under  him. 

Alex.  I'll  flog  any  fellow  that  don't  enlist ;  so  get 
your  sticks,  and  form  a  line,  or  look  out  for  your  heads. 

Geo.    I  will  not  serve  on  compulsion, 

Rob.     Nor  I. 

Micajah.     Nor  I. 

Harry.     Nor  I.     {The  rest  say  the  same.) 

Alex.     Why,  this  is  rank  mutiny. 

Rob.  There  is  no  mutiny  where  there  is  no  leader. 
Will  Mr.  Alexander  the  Great  please  to  show  his  com- 
mission. 

Alex.  Here  it  is.  (Wauing  his  suTord.)  If  you  don't 
do  as  I  tell  you  to,  I'll  knock  you  down  with  it. 

Harry.  That's  what  I  call  despotism,  and  I  will  not 
submit  to  it  for  one.^ 

Rub.  and  others.    Nor  I !    Nor  I !    Nor  II 

(Alex,  adcanccs  to  seize  George,  but  all  the  boys  protect 
UvMy  and  show  fight.) 

Harry.  If  you  strike  one,  you  strike  all.  ( To  Mica- 
jah.)   Cajy,  you'll  stand  by  us,  won't  you? 

Mic.  Yea,  Til  stand  by  thee,  but  thee  knows  I  never 
fight. 

Alex.     I  guess  I'll  make  you  fight. 

Mic.     I  guess  thee  will  not. 

Alex.     I'll  pound  all  the  thees  and  thous  out  of  you. 

Mic.     Then  thee  will  do  all  the  fighting  and  not  I. 

Geo.  If  you  strike  Cajy,  you  strike  all  of  us.  Don't 
he  boys  ? 

(All  bluster  and  show  their  fists  and  say)  Ay  I  ay  I  ay  .' 
let  him  strike  if  he  dares. 


68  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

Ned.  You'd  better  be  reasonable,  Mr.  Alexander,  for 
you  are  not  at  the  head  of  an  army  as  your  great  prede* 
cessor  was.  Stand  back,  boys,  and  face  him,  and  let  us 
have  a  parley.     (  Thetj  fall  back  lit  a  semi-circle. ) 

Alex.  Well,  Master  George,  you  are  the  leader  of  the 
rebellion ,  what  is  your  objection  to  joining  my  army. 

Geo.  I  had  no  voice  in  appointing  the  commander. 
I  fight  under  no  self-created  general.  What  do  you  say 
boys  ? 

{All.)     Never!    never!     Liberty  or  death  ! 

Alex.  Well,  Master  Harry,  why  do  you  refuse  to  join 
my  army  ? 

Harry.     There  is  not  any  army  to  join. 

Alex.  Well,  why  do  you  refuse  to  help  me  form  an 
army  ? 

Harry,  I  hate  standing  armies.  They  enslave  the 
people.    Don't  they,  boys  ? 

(All.)  Ay!  ay!  Down  with  standing  armies !  Down 
with  military  usurpers  ! 

Alex.  Bravely  done !  Now,  Micajah  Broadbrim,  what 
objection  have  you  to  joining  the  army  ? 

Mic.  I  hate  war.  It  is  the  worst  trade  in  the  world. 
I'll  die  before  I'll  fight.     What  do  you  say  to  that,  boys? 

{All.)  Down  with  the  horrid  trade!  Down  with 
human  butchers ! 

Alex.  Well,  Master  Ned,  what  objection  have  you  to 
joining' my  army?  You  are  more  reasonable  than  these 
rebels. 

Ned.  I  never  will  agree  to  fight  till  I  know  who  the 
enemy  is.  Cliristian  men  never  fight  those  who  have  not 
injured  them. 

Alex.  Will  none  of  you  enlist  ?  Come  to  the  point  at 
once. 

All.     No,  not  one.     Down  with  the  usurper ! 

Alex.  Til  ere  will  be  two  words  to  that  bargain.  Now 
look  out,  I  am  going  to  give  it  to  every  mother's  son  of 
you.  {He  looks  round  to  see  ivhich  he  shall  strike  first,  and 
all  .stand  firm  with  their  fists  raised,  except  Micajah,  who 
goes  beJiind  Alexander  and  clasping  his  arms  around  him, 
and  thus  confining  his  arms,  says:) 

Mic.     If  I  can  not  fight,  I  can  prevent  fighting.    Now, 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  69 

George  and  Harry,  ye  may  take  away  the  sword,  and 
may  tie  the  geueral's  feet  and  hands  with  your  handker- 
chiefs. {Tkcy  do  so.)  Now,  friend  Aleck,  thee  must 
join,  not  tlie  army,  that  thee  loves  so  well,  but  the  Peace 
Society,  or  we  will  duck  thee  in  the  pond,  to  cool  thy 
courage.  What  say  ?  Will  thee  join,  or  will  thee  be 
ducked  ? 

Alex.  I  don't  like  fighting  any  better  than  the  rest  of 
you.     I  was  'nt  in  earnest. 

Mic.     Say  thee'll'join  then. 

Alex.     Well,  I  will.     Come,  let  me  loose. 

Mic.  Thee  promises  not  to  hurt  any  of  us  for  what 
we  have  done  to  thee  ? 

Alex.     No,  no.     Let  me  go,  will  you  ? 

Ned.  Boys,  1  nominate  Alexander  President  of  the 
Peace  Party. 

Geo.     I  second  the  motion. 

Harry.     Let  all  who  favor  the  nomination  say,  Ay. 

AU.     Ay  !    Ay  !     ( They  untie  him. ) 

Ned.  Now  three  cheers  for  the  new  President,  Alex- 
ander, the  truly  Great. 

AU.     Hooraw  !    hooraw !    hooraw  ! 

Mic.  Lead  on,  Alexander,  we'll  follow  thee,  now,  and 
do  any  thing  but  fight  with  thee,  or  for  thee.  Give  him 
ihree  more  peace  cheers,  boys. 

AIL     Hooraw !  hooraw !   hooraw ! 


XXXIV.     THE  BOY  KING. 


JOHN. 

SAMUEL. 

SOLOMON. 

PETER. 

GEORGE. 

DANIEL. 

ROBERT. 

BENJAMIN. 

WILLIAM. 

DAVID. 

JAMES. 

MOSES. 

John.  ( Wearing  a  jjaper  cown. )  Well,  boys,  now  we 
are  going  to  be  a  king,  a  first  rate  king,  and  who  will  be 
our  ministers  ?  Come,  ^^  ho  wants  office  ?  We  are  ready 
to  receive  applications 


70  FOWLe's    HUNDRrO    DIALOGUES. 

George.  I  a})ply  for  the  office  of  prime  minister.  I  can 
promise  and  not  perform,  turn,  twist  and  deceive,  or  do 
any  thing  of  that  sort  to  a  charm. 

Jno.  We  are  going  to  be  a  wise  and  virtuous  king,  and 
will  not  have  a  rogue  for  our  prime  minister.  We  banish 
thee  from  our  presence. 

Wm.  I  should  like  to  be  the  war  minister.  I  can  fight 
like  a  tiger. 

Jno.  We  shall  have  no  fighting,  and  all  tigers  shall  be 
caged. 

Wm.  I  guess  your  majesty  will  get  on  bravely  with- 
out an  army.  Fist  logic  is  the  only  logic  the  mass  of  men 
understand. 

Jiw.  They  have  been  badly  educated.  If  we  have 
an  army,  it  shall  be  an  army  of  missionaries  or  school- 
masters, and  the  commander  in  chief  shall  be  a  quaker. 

Sam'l.  I  propose  to  be  at  the  head  of  the  educational 
department.  I  can  co?nmit  like  a  high  constabio.  I  will 
"  put  it  in  "  and  then  "  put  it  on,"  till  it  will  be  remem- 
bered, I  tell  you. 

Jno.  You  will  not  do  for  us.  Our  teachers  shall  all  be 
practical  men,  words  may  be  the  means,  but  never  the 
end  of  instruction. 

Da?i'l.  That's  your  sort!  and  if  your  plan  includes 
agriculture,  I  will  be  chief  farmer. 

Jno.  Education,  as  we  understand  it,  includes  every  kind 
of  useful  business.  All  school  learning  shall  bear  upon 
actual  life.  We  set  you  down,  Daniel,  for  our  chief  agent, 
and  not  chief  professor,  for  you  shall  do  more  than  profess. 

David.  I  claim  the  musical  department,  if  you  have 
one. 

j7to.  Music  is  one  of  the  most  important  points  of 
government.  We  will  support  a  band  of  music  in  every 
village,  and  all  our  subjects  shall  learn  to  sing,  or  play  on 
some  instrument.  Music  belongs  to  peace  and  not  to  war. 
You  shall  be  chief  musician. 

Sol.     I  should  .ike  to  be  chief  justice. 

Jno.     What  would  you  do  in  the  department  of  law  ? 

Sol.  I  would  always  whip  both  parties,  and  so  stop  liti- 
gation. 

Jno.    Would  you  r  ot  sometimes  whip  the  innocent,  then  ? 


FO\VLf/fc    liLNDRfcJD     D.ALOGULS,  7 1 

Sol.  Not.  half  SO  ofttii  as  they  are  whipped  now,  and 
this  will  save  the  expense  of  courts  and  lawyers,  jurors 
and  sheriff-;,  and  armies  to  defend  them. 

Jno.  Thou  shalt  be  our  chief  justice.  Who  next  pro- 
poses ? 

Robert.  T  will  be  chief  treasurer.  I  know  how  to  get 
money,  and  how  to  keep  it. 

Jno.  You  will  not  do  for  us.  Our  treasury  shall  not  be 
a  trader's  shop  or  a  miser's  chest.  We  will  aid  every 
useful  and  benevolent  undertaking,  the  chief  end  of  oui 
government  shall  be  to  bless  the  governed.  Some  woman 
or  some  man  with  a  heart,  if  we  can  find  one,  shall  be 
our  treasurer. 

Robert.     Petticoats,  forever  ! 

Jas.     I  propose  for  the  head  of  the  health  department. 

J?io.     Very  important.     How  will  you  manage  it  ? 

Jas.  I  will  divide  all  the  people  among  the  doctors, 
and  fine  every  doctor  who  let's  a  patient  get  sick.  It  shall 
be  high  treason  for  any  person  to  die  under  three  score 
and  ten. 

Jno.     What  will  you  do  if  they  insist  on  dying  sooner  ? 

Jas.     Declare  it  suicide,  and  never  let  them  try  again. 

Peter.  I  will  be  head  of  the  church,  and  take  care  of 
creeds  and  heretics. 

Jno.  God  will  do  that,  and  we  will  not  usurp  his  pre- 
rogative. Instead  of  punishing  men  for  differing,  we  will 
reward  them  for  agreeing  in  opinion.  So,  Mr.  Peter,  you 
may  go  and  tend  sheep  or  catch  fish. 

Ben.     I  will  be  chief  of  the  navy  department. 

Jno.  We  shall  have  none.  Our  merchant  ships  shall 
depend  upon  their  honesty  for  protection.  If  men  cheat 
or  hurt  us,  we  will  not  trade  with  them  again,  navies  and 
armies  promote  wars,  as  learning  the  art  of  self  defence 
often  makes  individuals  quarrelsome. 

Benjamin.     Hooraw  for  wooden  guns  ! 

Moses,  {a  very  small  hoy,  getting  up  in  a  chair,  and  stand- 
ing tiptoe,  squeaks  out,)  We  should  like  to  know  where  our 
kingdom  is  situated,  and  who  are  our  subjects. 

Jno.     Treason  I  treason  I 

All    Down  with  the  rebel !     Down  with  him ! 

Moses.     {Pointing  a  small  syringe  at  them.)     Come  on, 


72  FO^VI.E's    HUNDRED    DIALOGUES. 

we  defy  you  all.  Come  on,  any  one  who  wishes  never  to 
Bee  three  score  and  ten. 

Jno.     I  abdicate  in  favor  of  Moses. 

Wni.     I  move  that  Moses  be  crowned  king. 

All.  Long  live  his  majesty !  Long  live  Moses  the 
Great ! 

( Tliey  shift  the  crown  to  his  head,  and.  being  too  large,  it 
sinks  on  his  shoulders  and  covers  his  face.  Then  they  give 
kini  three  cheers,  and  bear  him  off  in  their  arms. 


XXXV.  THE  TALENTS. 

A    MOTHER    AND     HER    CHILDREN,    JOSIE     AND    WILLIE,    CHARLIE 
AND    HATTIE. 

Willie.  Mother,  what  did  onr  teacher  mean  to-day, 
when,  after  reading  the  parable  of  the  Talents,  in  the 
Scriptures,  he  told  us  that  God  had  given  talents  to  all  of 
us,  and  we  must  improve  them,  or  meet  with  his  displeas- 
ure. I  am  sure,  mother,  nobody  ever  gave  me  a  talent 
or  even  a  dollar  to  be  improved. 

Mother.  My  dear  Willie,  your  Maker  has  given  you  at 
least  one  talent,  and  I  think  you  have  improved  it  very 
well  for  so  young  a  boy. 

W.  Why,  mother,  I  did  n't  know  it,  pray,  where  is  it  ? 
I  should  like  to  handle  some  of  it. 

M.  O,  there  are  other  talents  than  money,  and  your 
talent  lies  in  Kindness.  I  do  not  know  what  I  should 
have  done,  if  you  had  not  helped  me  take  care  of  your 
brother  and  sisters,  and  done  a  thousand  errands  for  me. 

Hattie.  O,  mother,  he  is  real  good  to  us,  isn't  he? 
How  often  he  gives  up  his  playthings  to  please  us. 

Josie.  [Kissing  Willie.)  There,  Willie,  that's  for  riding 
me  and  Charlie  home  on  your  sled. 

Charlie.     I  lub  you,  Willie,  'cause  you  lub  me. 

M.  Kindness  or  benevolence  is  a  great  talent,  Willie, 
and  it  is  clear  that  you  have  not  wrapped  yours  up  and 
laid  it  away  to  rust. 


n 

W.  Well,  mother,  if  I  have  such  a  talent,  1  didn't 
know  it,  and  it  is  no  great  merit  to  do  well,  when  you 
don't  know  it.  But,  do  tell  me,  mother,  whether  Josie 
has  any  talent. 

/.  O,  dear,  don't  make  fun  of  me,  Willie,  I  am  good 
for  nothing,  and  every  body  knows  it. 

G.  Why,  Josie,  you  know  you  help  mother  all  the 
time.  Don't  you  pick  the  raisins,  and  rice,  and  rock  the 
cradle,  and  wash  our  faces,  and  comb  our  hair,  when 
mother  is  sick,  and  don't  father  say  you  are  an  excellent 
little  housekeeper? 

/.  O,  dear,  that  is  a  funny  sort  of  talent.  I  do  all  that 
because  I  cannot  bear  to  be  idle. 

M.  Your  talent  is  useful  Industry,  Josie,  and  I  don't 
know  how  I  should  get  on  without  you,  seeing  that  we 
are  too  poor  to  hire  a  servant. 

G.  Mother,  if  we  all  have  talents,  what  is  mine  ?  for 
I  don't  think  I  know.  I  am  sure  I  try  to  do  as  you  tell 
me  to  do,  and  I  mind  father,  and  the  teacher,  and  Willie. 

M.  Yes,  Charlie,  and  your  talent,  at  present,  is  Obe- 
dience. It  is  a  beautiful  talent,  my  dear  boy,  and  the 
more  beautiful  because  it  has  become  so  rare.  Now 
comes  httle  Hattie's  turn.  Hattie,  you  know,  is  lame, 
and  sometimes  suifers  a  great  deal  of  pain. 

/.     And  yet,  mother,  she  never  complains. 

C  No,  Hattie  is  real  good  about  that.  I  have  seen. 
the  great  big  tears  roll  down  her  little  cheeks  because  she 
was  in  such  pain,  and  when  I  cried,  too,  because  I  could  n't 
help  it,  because  she  was  so  sick,  she  kissed  me,  and  told 
me  not  to  cry  because  it  made  her  feel  worse. 

W.  When  she  was  very  small,  and  I  used  to  rock  her, 
she  used  to  ask  me  if  I  was  not  tired,  and  didn't  wish  to 
rest.     O,  she's  a  darling. 

M.  Yes,  little  Hattie's  talent  is  Patience.  The  dear 
child  has  suffered  a  great  deal,  and  I  fear  her  talent  will 
never  have  a  chance  to  rust. 

W.  Mother,  what  shall  I  do  with  my  talent,  when  I 
grow  up  and  the  children  do  not  need  my  help,  a  ad  you 
have  nothing  for  me  to  do. 

M.  That  time  will  never  come,  Willie,  for  the  world 
is  full  of  those  who  need  assistance,  and  those  who  are 

7 


74 

ready  and  willing  to  help  the  poor  and  weak,  the  erring 
and  ignorant,  will  always  find  more  work  than  they  can 
do.  You  need  not  be  afraid  that  your  talent  will  have 
to  rust  for  want  of  objects,  Willie. 

J.  What  shall  I  do,  mother,  when  I  can't  help  you  as 
I  try  to  now  ? 

W.  You  will  keep  house  yourself,  Josie,  and  have 
enough  to  do,  as  mother  has  now. 

H.  O,  Josie,  may  I  come  and  see  you,  if  mother  will 
let  me,  and  I  am  not  too  lame  to  walk. 

/.  You  will  be  a  great  girl,  Hattie,  dear,  and  will  not 
have  to  ask  mother's  consent. 

H.     O,  I  will  never  grow  up,  then,  shall  I  ma'  ? 

C.  But,  mother,  when  we  grow  up  and  do  not  have  to 
mind  you,  as  Josie  says,  what  will  become  of  my  talent, 
Obedience  ? 

M.     Children  obey  their  parents  when  they  are  young, 

but  when  they  can  understand,  they   must  obey   their 

Heavenly  Father,  and  learn  what  he  expects  them  to  do. 

C.     What  will  Hattie  do,  mother,  if  she  ever  gets  well, 

and  grows  up,  and  has  no  pain  to  bear? 

M.  She  will  comfort  those  who  are  suffering.  No 
persons  are  so  kind  to  others  as  those  who  know  what  it 
is  to  suffer.  But  she  needs  not  fear  that  her  Patience  will 
not  have  full  employment,  for  this  is  a  world  of  trouble. 
But,  my  children,  as  fast  as  you  are  able  to  use  them, 
God  Will  give  you  otiier  talents,  and  I  hope  you  will  be  as 
faithful  when  you  have  many,  as  you  now  are  with  ouly 
one. 

W.  But,  mother,  where  are  the  exchangers  with  whom 
we  must  place  our  talents  to  make  them  profitable? 

M.  You  must  always  do  to  others  as  you  wish  them 
to  do  to  you,  and  thus,  by  doing  good,  and  receiving  good, 
all  men  become  exchangers,  and  their  several  talents  con- 
stantly increase  in  value.  Now  give  me  a  kiss  and  go  to 
bed .      ( 'LVn  y  all  kiss  Iter. ) 

LL     Ma',  you  did  n't  tell  us  what  your  talent  is. 
M.     My  Heavenly  Father  has  given  me  at  lea^t  four 
talents,  and  I  have    named    them  Willie,  Josie,   Charlie 
:«iid  Hattie:     How  can  I  thank  him  sufficiently  for  all  his 
g^oodness  r 


FOWJ.E  S    HUNDRED    DIALOGUES.  75 

XXXVI.    THE  SCHOOL  OF  THE  WOELD. 

FATHER    AND    SON. 

Faiker.  What  has  happened  to  you  to-day,  my  son, 
that  you  are  so  unhappy  ?  Have  you  been  punished  at 
school  ? 

Harry.  Yes,  sir,  and  scolded  too,  and  I  wish  I  wat 
never  to  go  to  school  again.  I  do  not  love  school,  and  do 
not  learn  any  thing,  and  what  is  the  use  of  going? 

F.  You  do  not  learn  any  thing,  my  son !  Why,  I 
learn  something  every  day  of  my  life  without  going  to 
school. 

H.     Perhaps  I  should  do  so  too,  if  I  staid  at  hOme. 

F.  I  mean,  tliat,  without  the  adv^antage  of  going  to 
school  which  you  enjoy,  I  learn  something,  old  as  I  am ; 
and,  surely,  you,  who  are  but  a  child,  can  do  the  same. 

II.  Father,  did  you  not  once  tell  me  that  the  world  is 
a  great  school  ? 

F.  Yes,  Harry,  it  is  so,  and  I  am  one  of  the  scholars. 
It  is  a  sort  of  High-School. 

H.  At  your  school  do  you  have  lessons,  that  you  do 
not  understand,  to  learn  by  heart? 

F.  No  ;  my  lessons  are  about  things,  and  not  about 
words. 

II.  Then  I  should  like  your  school  better  than  mine. 
I  wonder  what  is  the  use  of  going  to  my  school ! 

F.  You  are  sent  to  school  to  prepare  you  to  enter  "he 
great  school  of  the  world,  into  which  you  will  be  admitted 
when  you  are  prepared. 

H.  How  am  I  to  be  prepared  ?  Do  you  have  to  sit 
still  all  day  on  hard  benches,  with  your  hands  folder  or 
behind  you,  as  we  do  at  ours? 

F.  No,  indeed  ;  we  are  all  the  time  in  motion,  and  our 
hands  are  always  at  work. 

II.  How  does  our  sitting  so  still  prepare  us  to  run 
about  as  you  do  ?  I  like  to  sit  when  I  am  tired  of  running, 
but  I  do  not  like  to  sit  till  I  am  benumbed,  and  too  tired 
to  run. 


76  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

F.  You  are  required  to  sit  still,  that  you  may  not  dis 
turb  your  neighbors. 

H.  Do  you  never  disturb  your  neighbors  by  running 
about?  I  have  read  of  a  great  philosoplier,  who  taught  a 
school,  and  always  kept  his  scholars  walking  about  with 
him.     I  wish  I  could  go  to  such  a  school. 

F.  I  am  afraid  you  have  not  behaved  well  at  school 
I  hope  you  never  talk  there. 

H.  No,  father,  we  are  not  even  allowed  to  whisper. 
Are  you  allowed  to  whisper  m  your  great  school  ? 

F.  We  are  often  obliged  to  talk  a  great  deal,  and  often 
very  loudly,  or  we  should  never  accomphsh  any  tiling. 

H.  Then,  father,  I  do  not  see  how  our  bemg  kept  so 
silent  prepares  us  for  entering  your  school  where  so  much 
talking  is  required. 

F.  You  study  in  sdence  that  you  may  get  information, 
and  have  something  to  talk  about  hereafter. 

H.  Do  you  only  have  to  talk  about  what  you  once 
studied  in  my  school  ?  We  study  sjjtiimg,  and  do  you  talk 
much  about  that  ? 

F.     No,  my  son,  we  talk  about  business. 

H.  Business  I  Do  we  study  that  in  our  school  ?  You 
sell  hats,  but  I  never  heard  Master  say  a  word  about  hats, 
except  when  he  tells  us  to  take  them  off  and  show  our 
manners.  I  never  read  a  lesson  on  hats  ;  I  never  ciphered 
about  hats.  I  know,  though,  how  you  make  hats,  and 
how  you  sell  them,  though  Master  did  not  tell  me. 

F.  Your  Master  teaches  you  how  to  read,  that  you 
may  not  only  be  able  to  read  about  hats,  but  about  every 
thing  else.  He  teaches  you  to  calculate,  that  you  may 
find  the  cost  or  value  not  only  of  hats,  but  of  other  arti- 
cles also. 

H.  I  wish  we  could  handle  the  articles  instead  of 
only  studying  about  them.  I  hate  the  school  so,  that  I 
would  run  away  from  it  if  I  dared  to  do  so. 

F.  You  would  be  a  truant  then,  and  would  be  pun- 
ished severely,  and,  probably,  disgraced  also. 

H.  I  know  it,  father ;  but  do  you  go  to  school  every 
day  as  I  am  compelled  to  do? 

F.  Every  day,  but  Sunday,  my  child,  and  then,  you 
know  I  go  to  cluu-ch,  which  is  another  sort  of  High- 
School. 


77 

H.  But,  father,  you  stay  at  home  sometimes,  when 
you  do  not  hke  tlie  minister,  and  is  not  this  the  same  as 
playing  truant?  But  you  always  make  me  goto  meet- 
ing, though  you  do  not  go  yourself.  Does  the  minister 
whip  you  for  it  with  a  rod,  as  our  master  whips  the  boys? 

F.  No  ;  no  man  is  allowed  to  strike  another  except  in 
self-defence. 

H.  Why  are  men  allowed  to  strike  boys,  then?  T 
mu'st  say  I  like  your  school  best,  father. 

F.  My  boy,  you  have  some  strange  notions  on  this 
subject ;  who  has  been  talking  to  you  ? 

H.  Nobody,  father ;  we  are  not  allowed  to  talk.  But 
I  should  like  to  know,  if,  when  Master  strikes  me,  I  have 
a  right  to  strike  back,  in  self-defence,  as  you  say  men  are 
allowed  to  do  ? 

F.     My  son,  you  do  not  understand  this  matter. 

H.  I  know  I  do  not,  Father,  and  this  is  why  I  ask 
you  so  much  about  it.  May  I  stay  at  home,  fathor,  until 
I  am  big  enough  to  go  to  your  school  ? 

F.  No,  you  must  go  to  your  own  school,  and  I  must 
see  your  Master,  and  have  a  talk  with  him  about  you,  for, 
though  I  know  you  must  be  wrong,  I  do  not  see  exactly 
how  to  prove  you  so. 


XXXVII.    THE  GOSSIPS. 

MRS,   PRV,  MR.S.  QUICK, 

MRS.  SEARCH,  MliS.  GOSSIP. 

SCENE    :N    the    street.       MRS.    PRY,     MRS.    SEARCH    AND  MRS. 
QUICK,  MEETING. 

Mrs.  Pry.    Have  you  heard  any  news,  neighbor  Search  ? 

Mrs.  Search.  News  ?  no,  1  am  dying  to  hear  some. 
1  have  not  heard  a  word  since  last  night,  and  it  is  now 
almost  noon. 

Mrs.  Quick.  I  heard  a  piece  of  news  as  I  came  along, 
and  you  will  hardly  believe  it,  though  I  received  it  from  a 


78  fowle's  hundred  dialogues, 

person   of  veracity,  who  was    knowing  to  the   fact,  and, 
therefore,  could  not  mistake. 

Mrs.  S  Pray  let  ns  have  it.  I  hope  it  is  nothing  short 
of  an  elopement. 

Mrs.  P.  1  hope  it  is  a  murder,  or,  at  least,  a  suicide.  We 
have  not  had  any  news  worth  mentioning  these  two  months. 

Mrs.  Q  It  is  neither  an  elopement  nor  a  murder,  but 
you  may  think  it  sometiiing  akin  to  the  latter.  Tlie 
truth  is,  there  is  a  woman  down  in  the  village,  and  th'ey 
will  not  allow  her  to  he  buried. 

Mrs.  S.     You  don't  say  so? 

Mrs.  Q.  1  do.  The  coroner  has  positively  refused  to 
bury  her. 

3Irs.  P.  Do  tell  I  What  could  the  poor  creature  have 
done  to  be  denied  christian  burial? 

Mrs.  Q.  I  do  not  knov/what  the  ofTence  was,  but  they 
say  he  has  his  reasons,  and  buried  she  shall  not  be. 

Mrs,  P.  Where  is  she  lying?  I  must  go  and  inquire 
into  it.  Bless  me,  Mrs.  Search,  how  could  this  happen 
and  we  not  hear  of  it  ? 

M?'s.  S.  Did  you  hear  her  name,  Mrs.  Quick?  that 
may  give  us  a  clue  to  the  mystery. 

Mrs.  Q.     I  did  not  learn  her  name,  though,  if  I  forget 

not,  it  began  with  a  G, or  some  such  letter.     But  I 

have  a  little  errand  up  the  street,  and  must  leave  you 
In  the  meantime,  as  we  know  so  little  of  tlie  circnm- 
Stances,  it  will  be  prudent  nut  to  repeat  what  I  have  told 
you.     Good  morning.      {SJlc  goes  out.) 

Mrs.  P.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  any  thing  so  strange? 
One  of  two  tilings  is  certain,  she  has  either  killed  herself 
or  been  killed,  and  is  reserved  for  examination. 

Mrs.  S,  I  don't  understand  it  so.  Mrs.  Quick  seemed 
to  insinuate  that  she  had  been  lying  a  long  time,  and  was 
not  to  be  buried  at  all.  But  here  comes  Mrs.  Gossip,  and 
perhaps  she  can  tell  us  all  about  it,  as  she  comes  fresh 
from  the  village.     {Enter  Mrs.  Gossip.) 

Mrs.  P,     Good  morning,  Mrs.  Gossip. 

Mrs.  G.  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Pry.  How  do  you  do, 
Mrs.  Search  ? 

Mrs:  S.     Pretty  well,  I  thank  you.     How  do  you  do? 

Mrs.  G.     Indifierent,   I'm  much  obliged  to  you.      I've 


79 

ha<l  a  touch  of  hydrophoby,  I  believe  they  call  it,  or  soma 
thing  else. 

Mrs.  P.  {To  Mrs.  S.,  aside.)  No  new  complaint.  She 
always  hated  cold  water.  {Aloud.)  How  did  the  dread- 
ful disease  affect  you,  Mrs.  G?     What  dog  bit  you  ? 

Mrs.  G.  .Dog I  what  do  you  mean  by  a  dog?  The 
disease  began  with  a  cold  in  my  head,  and  a  sore  threat, 
and , 

Mrs.  S.     O,  it  was  the  influenza, 

Mrs.  G.  So  it  was,  I  knew  it  was  some  outlandish 
name,  and  they  all  sound  alike  to  me.  For  my  part,  I 
wish  there  was  no  foreign  words. 

Mrs.  P.  Mrs,  Gossip,  did  you  hear  the  particulars  of 
the  dreadful  news  in  tlie  village  ? 

Mrs.  G.  No.  What  dreadful  news?  I  have  not 
heard  nothing,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent. 

Mrs.  P.  What !  hav'nt  you  heard  of  the  woman  in 
the  village  that  they  wont  bury  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Not  a  word.  Who  is  she?  What's  her 
name  ? 

Mrs  S.  Her  name  begins  with  G.,  and  as  that  begins 
your  name,  I  hoped  you  would  know  something  about  it. 

Mrs.  G.  Bless  me  I  I  never  heard  a  syllable  of  it ! 
Why  don't  they  bury  the  poor  thing?  I  could'nt  refuse 
to  bury  even  a  dog, 

Mrs.  P,  There  is  a  suspicion  of  murder  or  suicide  in 
the  case. 

Mrs.  G.  Well,  they  hang  murderers  and  suicides, 
don't  they  ?  What  can  be  the  matter?  There  is  some- 
thing very  mysterious  about  it. 

Mrs.  S,  I  am  dying  to  know  all  about  it.  Come,  let's 
all  go  down  to  the  village,  and  probe  the  matter  to  the 
bottom.      I  dearly  love  to  get  hold  of  a  mystery. 

Mrs.  P.     I  say,  let  us  all  go,  and   here  is   Mrs,  Quick 
coming  back.     She  will  go  with  us,  for  she  told  us   the 
news,  and  she  is  dying  to  learn  the  particulars, 
{Re-enter  Mrs.  Quick.) 

Mrs.  Q.     Good  morniug  again,  ladies. 

All.     Good  morning, 

Mrs.  G.  What  was  the  mattei  with  that-aw-  woman 
ihat  they  wont  bury  in  the  village  ? 

Mrs.  Q.     Notliing  is  the  matter  with  her. 


80 

Mrs.  G.  Tnen  in  marcy's  name,  why  don't  they  bury 
her? 

Mrs.  Q.  I  know  of  but  one  reason,  but  that  is  a  very 
important  one. 

Mrs.  P.  We  did  not  know  you  knew  the  reason  tliey 
would 'nt  bury  her.  Why  did  not  you  tell  us  what  it 
was? 

Mrs.  Q.  You  did  not  ask  me,  and,  besides,  it  is  some- 
what of  a  secret. 

Mrs.  S.  You  need  not  fear  our  disclosing  it.  Pray  let 
us  have  it. 

Mrs.  P.     Pray  do.     I  am  bursting  with  curiosity. 

Mrs,  G.  And  I  too  Mrs.  Quick,  you  say  there  is  but 
one  reason  why  they  will  not  bury  the  woman,  and  pray 
what  is  that? 

Mrs.  P.     What  is  it? 

Mrs.    S.      Yes,    what     is    it? 

(All,  earnestly.)     Wiiat  is    it  ? 

Mrs.  Q.     She  is  not  dead  ! 


XXXVIII.    THE  PIONEER. 

COLUMBUS,  GUZMAN,  DIEZ  AND  HERNANDO. 

Guzman.  You  claim  all  the  merit  of  discovering  the 
New  World,  Columbus,  and  yet  every  one  must  see  that 
you  are  not  entitled  to  any  credit,  for  any  body  of  com- 
mon sense  could  have  done  wliat  you  did,  and  some  fool 
Would  have  blundered  into  the  discovery,  if  you  had  not 
prevented  him. 

Columbus.  The  world  had  gone  on  more  than  five 
thousand  years,  when  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  make  the 
discovery,  but  no  fool  had  blundered  into  it  during  that 
long  stretch  of  time. 

Dicz.  It  was  no  great  exertion  of  wit  to  infer,  as  you 
did,  Columbus,  that,  if  the  earth  is  a  globe,  and  all  the 
land  we   know  of  on  one   side  of  it,  there  must  be  some 


SI 

land  on  the  other  side,  to  balance  and  prevent  the  world 
from  being  one  sided. 

Hernando.  Nay,  there  is  no  force  in  the  inference  ;  for, 
the  land  above  water  is  now  all  on  the  north  jrn  half  of 
the  globe,  and  yet  the  globe  does  not  revolve  as  if  one 
sided. 

CoL  I  do  not  claim  any  particular  merit  for  the  rea- 
sonings that  led  to  the  discovery ;  and  yet,  if  the  exist- 
ence of  the  western  continent  was  so  evident,  it  is  singular 
that  neither  you,  gentlemen,  nor  any  one  else  had  any 
faith  in  it. 

Guzman  It  required  little  faith  to  believe  there  was 
land  in  the  west,  when  it  was  known  that  productions 
unknown  in  the  east,  and  even  the  bodies  of  men  unlike 
any  here  seen,  had  drifted  from  the  west  to  our  shores. 

Biez.  It  required  little  faith  to  sail  westward  on  a 
globe,  when  you  knew  that  continued  sailmg  must  needs 
bring  you  to  the  point  of  departure. 

Hern,  It  required  but  little  faith,  I  trow,  to  do  all  you 
did. 

Col.  O  ye,  of  little  faith,  why  did  ye  doubt?  Why, 
if  the  existence  of  a  western  region  was  so  certain,  and 
you  were  so  sure  of  being  able  to  return,  why,  pray,  did 
you  not  show  faith  by  your  works  ?  It  must  have  been 
very  easy  to  make  the  discovery,  or  I,  a  very  humble 
man,  should  never  have  accomplished  it.  But  to  change 
the  subject,  and  amuse  ourselves,  let  me  ask  if  either  of 
you  believes  that  an  egg  may  be  made  to  stand  on  end 
upon  a  hard  tal)le. 

Hiez.     I  believe  it  can.    Guz.   And  I.    Hernan.    And  I. 

Col.  So  do  I,  but,  if  you  have  never  done  it,  or  seen  it 
done,  it  will  amuse  you  to  see  how  difficult  it  is.  Will 
you  try  it,  Guzman  ? 

Guz.     Certainly.     {He  tries  and  fails  several  tii^ies.) 

Viez.  Let  me  try,  Guzman,  you  will  not  do  it  in  a 
twelve-month.     (He  tries  and  fails.) 

Her?i.  It  is  very  singular  that  you  can  not  do  a  thing 
that  is  so  easy.  Let  me  have  the  egg.  {He  t/ies  a/nd 
fails,  and  says;)  I  don't  believe  it  can  be  done. 

Diez.     Nor  I.      Guz.     Nor  I. 

Hern.  You  can  not  do  it  yourself,  Columbus.  I  defy 
you  to  do  .t.     JDiez.    So  do  I.      Guz.    And  so  do  I. 


82  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

Col.  Now,  watch  me,  gentlemen,  for  the  opeidtion 
is  a  very  simple  one,  though  such  philosophej's  have 
failed  in  it.  You  see,  gentlemen,  I  take  the  q^s,  between 
two  fingers,  thus,  (Hie  does  as  he  describes,)  then  1  strike 
the  shell  hard  enough  upon  the  table  to  flatten  it,  thus  ; 
nd  then  the  egg  stands  alone,  as  you  see. 

Diez.  Pshaw  I  what  nonsense.  Any  body  could  do 
so. 

Guz.    Ridiculous  I    A  school-boy  could  have  done  that. 

Hern     Poh  !     A  fool  could  have  played  that  trick. 

Col.  Yes,  any  fool  could  have  done  it  upon  one  con- 
dition. 

Guz.     What  was  that  ? 

Col.     That  some  greater  fool  had  shown  him  how. 

Diez,  Guz.  and  Hern.  {Together.)  Do  you  mean  to 
insult  us  ? 

Guz.  Is  this  experiment  intended  for  amusement  or 
insults 

Col.  Neither ;  but  for  instruction.  The  experiment  of 
the. egg  represents  the  discovery  of  America.  You  all 
believed  that  the  egg  could  be  set  on  end,  as  you  say 
you  believe  you  could  have  made  the  discovery.  In  both 
cases,  all  you  wanted  was  somebody  to  show  you  how 
the  thing  should  be  done.  This  it  was  my  good  fortune 
to  demonstrate,  and  all  I  hope  is,  that,  when  you  next 
depreciate  my  discovery,  you  will  recollect  that  it  is  easy 
enough  to  set  an  egg  on  end,  when  some  one  has  broken 
the  shell. 


XXXIX.    DOMESTIC  GRAMMAR. 

MRS.    GRUMPY    AND   MISS    SYNTAX. 

Mrs.  G.     Sarvant,  miss.     Are  you  the  school-ma'am? 
Miss  S.     I  am  a  teacher,  madam,  but  I  do  not  claim  to 
be  the  teacher  yet. 

Mrs.  G.     I  have  heerd  a  great  deal  about  your  school, 


83 

thougli  you  are  so  modest  about  it ;  and  I  hav^e  determin- 
ed to  send  you  one  of  my.«|Xi/5,  if  you  can  only  satisfy 
me  in  regard  to  one  pi?it.  Tney  tell  me  you  have  some 
new  fangled  notions  on  the  subject  of  Grammar,  and  I 
never  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  no  Grammar  but 
Murray's.  I  larn't  that  myself,  and  as  I  never  had  no 
trouble  in  getting  along,  I  want  my  children  to  enjoy  the 
same  advantages. 

Miss  S.  My  pupils  are  taught  that  Grammar  as 
thoroughly  as  it  is  taught  elsewhere,  lest  they  should  be 
tliought  ignorant  by  those  who  know  nothing  better,  but 
we  do  not  stop  at  that  system,  —  we  endeavor  to  go 
farther,  and  look  deeper. 

Mrs  G.  That's  deep  enough.  I  have  no  idee  that  any 
good  comes  of  a  gal's  trying  to  be  too  grammatical.  In 
my  day,  we  was  all  taught  alike,  and  them  new-fangled 
aotions  of  youni  ivas  n't  thought  on.  Hepsy,  dear,  do 
you  want  to  learn  tliat  air  grammar  tlic  school-ma'am 
tells  onl 

11.     I  don't  want  to  study  no  grammar,  mother. 

Mrs.  G.  O,  my  dear,  you  must  study  some  grammar, 
5)r  how  will  you  be  able  to  pass  through  the  world,  for  the 
whole  object  of  grammar  is  passing. 

H.  Mother,  I  don't  want  to  study  no  grammar,  I  shall 
pass  well  enough  without  it. 

Miss  S.  I  shall  endeavor,  at  any  rate,  to  teach  her  the 
correct  use  of  language. 

Mrs.  G.  If  language  is  language,  Miss-what's-your- 
name,  I  don't  see  why  grammar  should  not  be  grammar 
all  the  world  over. 

Miss,  S.  Each  language  must  have  its  own  grammar, 
madam. 

Mrs.  G.  What  good  does  that  do  ?  I'd  have  one 
grammar  for  all. 

Miss  S.     But  languages  differ,  madam. 

Mrs.  G.  What  do  they  do  that  for?  What  is  the  use 
of  one  man's  calling  a  gal  a  gal,  and  another's  calling  her 
mad  —  mad  —  something,  I  forget  what. 

Miss  S      Mademoiselle. 

Mrs.  G.  Well,  what's  the  use  of  two  names?  A 
gal's  a  gal  all  the  world  over.  Hepsy,  dear,  how  would 
you  like  to  be  called  a  mad — mussel  ? 


34  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

H.  I  don't  care  what  I  am  called,  if  you  don't  make 
me  study  grammar.  I  don't  want  nothing  to  do  with 
nomitive  cases  and  jjarrotive  moods.     I'm  sick  on  e'm. 

Mrs  G.     O,  my  dear,  you  must  study  some  grammar. 

H.     No,  mother,  I  won't  study  nothing  but  dancing. 

Mrs.  G.  O,  my  dear,  you  must  know  something  about 
the  articles  and  the  oppositions,  the  oxilleries  and  the 
interruptions,  the  modes  and  the  fashions  or  you  will  be 
set  down  for  a  dunce.  You  must  commit  these,  my 
dear. 

H.  I  don't  want  to  commit  nothing  but  matiimony, 
mother. 

Mrs.  G  O,  my  dear,  that's  naughty.  But,  if  you  are 
sot  upon  not  studying  grammar,  you  may  let  it  alone,  for 
I  have  often  heerd  that  there  is  no  need  of  a  child's  lam- 
in  grammar  when  she  don't  hear  no  bad  language  at  home. 
Good  morning,  Miss  Syntax,  Hepsy  prefers  to  be  under 
my  care,  and  I  never  use  no  repuhioji  when  a  child  has 
any  choice.  Good  morning.  Come  Hepsy,  dear,  come 
along. 


XL.     THE  PARTY. 


MR.    SHOWDEN    AND   WIFE. 


Mr.  S.  "Well,  my  dear,  are  all  things  ready  lor  the 
party  ?     1  begin  to  be  tired  of  this  preparation. 

Mrs.  S.  O,  dear,  husband,  we  have  hardly  begun  to 
see  the  beginning  of  it  yet.  Every  miiuite  some  new 
and  important  question  arises,  and,  when  one  has  done 
one's  best,  one  can  not  expect  to  offend  no  one,  there  are 
so  many  shades  of  gentility  and  lines  of  etiquette. 

Mr:  S.  May  I  hear  some  of  the  questions  that  you 
think  so  important  ? 

Mrs.  S.  The  music  has  disappointed  us,  and  we  can 
not  find  any  other  band  that  is  disengaged.  Was  any 
one  ever  so  unfortunate  ? 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  85 

Mr.  S.  Why  do  you  not  use  your  own  piano  ?  When 
I  bought  it,  the  chief  reason  you  gave  for  buying  it  was, 
that  we  could  have  music  to  dance  by  whenever  we 
pleased,  and  without  expense.  Our  daughters  all  play 
finely,  you  know. 

Mrs.  S.  That  is  true,  but  Mrs.  Stickup  had  six  pieces 
at  her  party,  and  what  will  she  say  if  we  have  only  a 
piano  ?  Besides,  the  girls  wish  to  dance,  and  not  to  play 
Then  there  is  a  serious  question  about  Mrs.  Cleverly  and 
her  family. 

Mr.  S.  Why  so?  She  is  an  excellent  woman,  and 
has  two  charming  daughters. 

Mrs.  S.  Yes,  but  she  was  not  invited  to  Mrs.  Stickup's 
party,  and  what  would  Mrs.  Stickup  say,  if  I  invited  her 
leavings?  You  know  she  sews,  sometimes,  for  a  living, 
aud  her  two  daughters  teach  the  district  schools  every 
summer. 

Mr.  S.  This  should  recommend  them.  I  love  inde- 
pendence and  industry. 

Mrs.  S.  O  dear,  how  little  you  know  about  such 
things  !  I  should  never  hear  the  last  of  it,  if  I  in- 
vited any  one  to  a  set  party  who  has  to  work  for  her 
living. 

Mr.  S.  I  have  to  work  for  mine,  and  I  expect  to  be 
invited.     I  love  to  work. 

Mrs,  S.  You  need  not  be  always  telling  of  it.  It  is 
considered  vulgar  for  any  one  to  mention  business,  espe- 
cially if  it  has  any  thing  to  do  with  work.  What  would 
Mrs.  Stickup  say,  if  she  knew  you  ever  helped  the  work- 
men you  employ? 

Mr.  S.  I  should  not  care  what  she  said,  if  she  did  not 
say  I  used  tliem  ill,  and  did  not  pay  them.  Is  this  your 
only  trouble? 

Mrs.  S.  O  dear.  No.  That  vexatious,  creature,  Mrs. 
Upstart,  has  declined  my  invitation. 

Mr.  S.     Well,  what  of  that? 

Mrs.  S.  What  of  that  ?  A  good  deal  of  that.  She 
was  at  Mrs.  Stickup's  party,  and  what  will  Mrs.  Stickup 
say  when  she  hears  that  Mrs.  Upstart  refused  to  accept 
my  invitation  ? 


86  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

Mr.  S.  What  will  she  say,  but  that  there  will  be  move 
room  for  those  who  do  attend  ? 

Mrs  S.  I  wish  you  were  not  so  set  in  your  way,  Mr. 
Showden.  A  pretty  party  we  should  have  if  you  had 
the  management.  My  list  contains  only  three  iuUidred 
names,  and  Mrs.  Stickup  invited  four  hundred,  and  how 
Mrs.  Stickup  could  pick  up  so  many,  I  am  sure  1  cannot 
tell. 

Mr.  S.  You  might  let  the  widow  Cleverly  and  her 
daughters  come,  I  should  think,  in  such  an  emergency. 
But  why  would  you  have  more  than  three  hundred  ?  I 
should  think  that  number  enough  for  a  room  that  can  not 
hold  half  the  number. 

Mrs.  S.  Why,  what  do  you  think  Mrs.  Stickup  would 
say,  if  we  did  not  muster  as  many  as  she  did?  No  mat- 
ter if  there  is  not  room  for  them,  they  come  expecting  to 
be  jammed. 

Mr.  S.  To  change  the  subject  a  little,  let  me  ask  how 
much  is  this  party  to  cost,  Mrs.  Showden  ? 

Mrs.  S.  I  don't  know  or  care.  When  one  has  a 
party  the  cost  is  of  small  importance.  The  thing  must 
be  carried  through,  cost  what  it  may. 

Mr.  S.  It  is  of  some  mportance  to  him  who  has  to 
pay  to  know  the  cost. 

Mrs.  S.  You  are  always  throwing  cold  water  on  all 
my  plans,  Mr.  Showden. 

Mr.  S.  My  dear,  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  first  as  last, 
that,  this  morning  I  have  been  obliged  to  stop  payment. 

Mrs.  S.  Stop  payment !  What  do  you  mean,  Show- 
den ? 

Mr.  S.  I  mean  what  I  say.  I  have  stopfied  payment, 
and  your  party  had  better  be  postponed. 

Mrs.  S.  O  dear,  what  will  Mrs.  Stickup  say  ?  I 
should  not  care  if  it  was  not  for  her,  a  proud  thing. 

Mr.  S.  We  shall  find  out  our  friends,  for  1  doubt 
whether  such  a  party  would  determine  who  they  are. 

Mrs.  S.  I  shall  die  with  mortification,  for  it  is  known 
tliat  I  am  to  have  a  great  party.  What  will  Mrs.  Stick- 
up say,  when  she  hears  that  mine  is  deferred,  when  hers 
went  off  so  gloriously  ? 

Mr.  S.  Not  one  of  your  invited  guests  would  visit  one 
whose  husband  had  stopped   payment      The   Cleverlies 


DIALOGUES.  87 

indeed  might  come  to  sympathize  with  you,  and  serve 
you. 

Mrs  S.  Well  they  are  worthy  folks,  after  all,  and  I 
have  done  them  great  injustice.  But,  my  dear,  what 
shall  we  do,  if  you  are  ruined  ? 

Mr.  S.  We  are  not  entirely  ruined,  my  dear.  There 
are  many  things  left  to  an  honest  man,  after  his  money 
is  gone.  The  affection  of  his  family  is  something,  char- 
acter is  something,  hope  is  something, 

Mrs.  S.  That  is  all  true,  and,  perhaps,after  all,  it  will 
be  for  our  good.  I  was  becoming  too  fashionable,  too 
devoted  to  the  world,  and  began  to  undervalue  the  only 
things  that  have  any  real  worth.  But  tell  me,  how  hap- 
pened this  failure  to  come  upon  you  so  suddenly  ?  Why 
did  you  stop  payment  New  Year's  morning,  of  all  morn- 
ings in  the  year  ? 

Mr,  S.  Because,  having  paid  all  my  debts  at  the  end 
of  the  year,  I  had  no  more  paymeMs  tx)  'make. 

Mrs.  S.  Are  you  serious,  Mr.  Showden?  Have  you 
been  playing  a  trick  to  frighten  me  ? 

Mr.  S.  I  was  never  more  serious.  But  I  am  sorry  to 
say  that  Mr.  Stickup  has  really  failed  this  morning,  and 
will  not  pay  one  dollar  in  a  hundred,  so  there  is  no 
particular  need  of  your  inviting  more  than  three  hundred 
through  fear  of  what  the  Stickups  may  say. 

Mrs.  S.  Forgive  me  this  once,  and,  instead  of  having 
the  party,  I  wish,  as  you  go  to  the  store,  you  would  invite 
Mrs.  Cleverly  and  her  daughters  here  to  tea. 


XLI.    THE  KING  AND  THE  GARDENER. 

THE     KING     IN    A    CITIZEN's     DRESS,  A    GUN   OR   RIDING   WHIP    IN 
IIIS   HAND. 

King.  Friend,  can  you  tell  me  how  to  get  to  the 
palace  ? 

Gardener.  Yes,  you  must  flatte*  the  prince  and  despise 
the  people. 


88  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

K.  You  mistake  my  question.  I  have  lost  my  way 
and  can  you  set  me  rigli*  ? 

G.     I  suppose  I  can. 

K.      Will  you  do  so  ? 

G.     Tliat  depends  upon  circumstances.     Who  are  yoil  ? 

K.     One  of  the  king's  friends. 

G.     I  did  not  think  he  had  any  friends. 

K.     Why  not? 

G.     He  loves  nobody.     It  is  love  that  begets  love. 

K.     What  do  you  know  of  the  king  ? 

G.     Nothing. 

K.     Then  why  judge  so  hardly  of  him? 

G.     Because  I  know  nothing. 

K.     Methinks  that  should  m-ake  you  spare  him. 

G.     It  might  lead  me  to  spare  my  neighbor. 

K.     Why  not  the  king,  also? 

G.  A  king  should  make  himself  known,  as  a  common 
man  can  not. 

K.     How  so  ?     I  am  ready  to  learn. 

G.     You  may  be  ready,  but  the  king  is  not. 

K.  I  have  the  confidence  of  the  king,  and  will  tell 
hiniy  if  you  will  tell  me,  how  he  can  make  himself  known. 

G.  By  blessing  his  people  ;  by  leading  them  to  virtue, 
and  setting  a  glorious  example  of  beneficence. 

K.     He  has  no  money  to  spare. 

G.  He  should  have.  But  money  is  not  necessary,  it 
does  not  truly  bless  men. 

K.     Riglit,  for  the  king  is  not  blessed  by  it. 

G.     He  does  not  know  how  to  use  it. 

K.     Are  you  not  afraid  to  speak  thus  of  the  king  ? 

G.     No.     I  would  he  heard  me. 

K.     He  might  hang  you. 

G.     He  would  first  have  heard  some  truth. 

K.  Should  you  dare  to  say  to  him  what  you  have  said 
of  him,  to  me  ? 

G.     Surely  I  should.  —  I  never  backbite. 

K.     I  will  try  you.     Fellow,  I  am  your  king ! 

G.     I  am  then  your  faithful  subject. 

K,     I  condemn  you  to  death. 

G.  No,  you  don't.  I  could  kill  you  before  you  could 
find  an  executioner.     You  do  not  mean  what  you  threaten. 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  89 

K.     Strange  fellow  I  how  know  yon  that  ? 

G.  As  a  man,  yon  sjjared  me  when  I  spake;  as  a 
monarch,  yon  will  not  disgrace  the  man. 

K.     I  will  spare  thee  only  on  one  condition. 

G.     Name  it.  Sire,  if  it  be  not  dishonorable. 

K.     Yon  mnst  live  with  me,  and  be  my  connsellor. 

G.     Yonr  majesty  mnst  snrely  be  in  jest. 

K.     I  never  was  more  serions.     I  sentence  you to 

be  my  friend,  and  teach  me  how  to  bless  my  people. 
Come,  shoulder  your  spade,  and  follow  me  to  court. 
Spades  shall  be  trumps  henceforth. 

G.     Your  majesty  will  yet  be  King  of  Hearts 

K.     Come  on,  I  long  to  have  the  game  begin. 


XLII.     APJSTIDES  THE  JUST. 

aristi'des  and  themis'tocles. 

Aristides.  The  citizens  of  Athens  have  deputed  me  to 
hear  the  secret  plan  Themistocles  has  formed  to  raise  our 
city  to  the  height  of  jwwer  and  glory. 

Tlundatoclcs.  '  T  is  well  ;  no  citizen  can  better  judge  of 
such  high  things,  than  Aristides,  who  has  done  so  much 
to  build  the  name  of  Athens. 

Arist.  You  flatter  me,  Themistocles,  for,  scarce  a  year 
has  passed  since  Athens  sentenced  me  to  exile.  But  to 
the  secret  plan,  for  on  Mars  Hill  the  assembled  citizens 
await  my  just  report. 

Tliein.  The  united  fleets  of  Greece  have  crushed  the 
Persian  power,  and  we  no  longer  dread  invasion. 

Arut.  True,  the  lesson  given  at  Salamis  will  not  be 
lost.     What  then  ? 

Them.     The  vessels  of  our  allies  lie  at  Pag'asaB. 

Arist.  They  do,  and  gloriously  have  they  earned 
repose. 

Them.  They  are  our  rivals,  and  in  their  crowded  state 
nay  ail  be  burned. 


90  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

Arist.     We  must  inform  them  of  their  danger. 

Tkcm.      We  must  burn  them  I 

Aris.      Burn  what? 

Them.  The  allied  fleet ;  and  Athens  then,  the  mistress 
of  the  sea,  will  dictate  to  all  Greece.  What  say'st  thou, 
Aristides  ? 

Arist.     Nought.     The  thought  is  monstrous. 

Tlitni.  Will  not  the  burning  of  their  fleet  secure  pre- 
eminence to  Athens  ? 

Arist,     Pre-eminence  in  infamy  !     They  are  our  friends. 

Tkcm.  They  are  our  rivals,  and  the  Gods  who  watch 
o'er  Athens,  have  delivered  them  into  our  hands. 

Arist.  The  Gods  do  no  injustice,  and  their  wrath  would 
make  the  crime  recoil  on  Athens  with  tremendous  power. 

Them.     The  crime  !     You  dare  uot  call  it  thus. 

Arist.  What  else?  Is  not  injustice  crime?  Is  not 
mean  treachery  crime  ?  Is  not  ingratitude  the  worst  of 
crimes?     I  do  protest  against  the  plan,  Themistocles 

Them,     And  will  report  against  it  ? 

Arist.     Most  certainly 

Them.     Then  be  thy  country's  curse  upon  thy  head. 

Arist.     That  I  can  better  bear  than  her  dislionor. 

Ihe77i.  The  strategies  of  war  are  not  esteemed  dishon- 
orable, then  why  forego  this  great  advantage? 

Arist.  All  war  is  self-condemned  that  authorizes  or 
requires  a  wrong  ;  but  they,  on  whom  you  now  propose  to  in- 
flict the  wrong,  are  peaceful  all,  and  lately  our  companions 
in  the  Persian  strife. 

Tlicm.     They  may  unite  against  us. 

Arist.  They  may,  if  we  do  spare  them  ;  they  surely 
will  if  we  commit  the  injustice  you  propose. 

Them.     The  glory  of  Athens  is  our  highest  law. 

Arist.  There  is  one  higher,  —  Justice,  and  to  that  even 
Themistocles  must  bow. 

Them.     I  bow  to  nothing  but  the  immortal  Gods. 

Arist.  The  Gods  are  just,  and  Jove's  high  throne  would 
fall  at  once,  were  it  not  based  on  justice. 

Them.     And  your  Report  will  stamp  me  with  disgrace. 

Arist.  Your  secret  shall  be  kept,  Themistocles,  and  I 
shall  but  report  that  nothing  can  conduce  so  much  to  exalt 
the  power  and  glory  of  the  state  —  but,  nothing  can  be 
more  imjust. 


91 


XLIII.    THE  FAMILY  TREE. 

MR.    RUST,    AND    HIS    SON    JOHN 

John.  Father,  why  are  you  poking  over  those  old  rusty 
papers  ? 

Mr.  R.  To  ascertain  whom  your  great  grandmother's 
aunt  Jernsha  married. 

/.     Why,  father,  what  do  you  care  about  that? 

Mr.  R.  I  am  anxious  to  complete  the  family  tree,  and 
her  name  must  not  cause  a  break  in  it. 

/.  I  should  tliink  it  was  more  im})ortant  to  take  care  of 
the  hving  aimts,  and  there's  aunt  Polly,  with  nine  children 
and  uo  })roperty.     Mother  says  she  pities  her. 

Mr.  R.  So  do  I.  But  I  have  the  names  and  ages  of 
all  her  children,  and  have  nothing  more  to  get  from  her, 
except  the  date  of  her  luishand's  death. 

/.  Father,  wliat  good  does  a  family  tree  do,  if  it  bears 
no  fruit  ? 

Mr.  R.  It  affords  one  a  deal  of  satisfaction  to  know 
frmu  whom  one  is  descended. 

/.     Why,  father,  didn't  we  all  come  from  Adam  ? 

Mr.  II.  Yes,  bnt  then  I  wish  to  know  every  step  in 
the  ladder. 

/      What  good  will  that  do  us,  father? 

Mr.  R.  It  enables  us  to  see  what  great  and  good  men 
we  have  descended  from. 

/.  Will  it  not  also  tell  us  what  mean  and  wicked  men 
we  came  from  ? 

Mr.  R.     Yes,  my  son,  it  does  all  that. 

J.  Shall  we  suffer  for  their  wickedness,  or  be  benefited 
by  their  greatness  ? 

Mr.  R.  No,  indeed,  nothing  they  have  done  can  help 
or  hart  us. 

J.     Father,  who  is  the  greatest  man  on  the  family  tree  ? 

Mr.  R.  There  was  a  great  General,  who  fought  fifty 
pitched  battles,  and  was  killed  at  the  head  of  his  arniy. 

/.     O  dearl     i  should  not  think  fighting  battles  any 


92  fq-^^le's  hundred  dialogues. 

credit  to  him,  and  being  killed  is  a  poor  reward  for  fight- 
ing so  many,  is  it  not,  father  ? 

Mr.  R.  Killing  men  is  a  poor  business,  my  son,  but  it 
was  once  the  most  honorable  occupation  in  the  world. 

/.     Who  was  tlie  most  wicked  man  on  the  tree,  father? 

Mr.  R.     Well,  tlierc  was  one  who  suffered  for  piracy. 

J.  How  did  he  suffer  father,  did  the  pirates  seize  his 
vessel ? 

Mr.  R.  Not  exactly.  He,  himself,  was  suspended, 
my  son. 

/.  What  does  suspending  mean,  father?  I  have  heard 
of  suspending  payment,  when  men  fail  in  business. 

Mr.  R.  He  suspended  business^  to  be  sure,  but  he 
paid 

/.  If  he  paid,  he  was  honorable,  and  not  wicked,  I 
should  think. 

Mr.  R.  He  only  paid  —  the  penalty  of  the  law,  my 
son.     He  was  a  pirate  himself,  and  was  hanged. 

/.  O  dear,  I  am  sorry  there  is  any  of  his  blood  in  my 
veins.     But,  sir,  who  was  your  father? 

Mr.  R.  An  honest  mechanic,  my  son,  as  was  my 
grandfather  before  hun. 

/.     W^hat  was  the  next  farther  back? 

Mr.  R.  A  farmer,  and  his  father  was  a  minister,  and 
his  a  shoe  maker. 

/.     How  near  can  you  get  to  Adam,  father? 

Mr.  R      Not  within  5000  years  of  him. 

J.  If  you  could  get  up  to  him,  wh^i  good  would  it  do, 
father,  if  he  was  the  man  who,  as  Milton  says,  "brought 
death  into  the  world  and  all  our  woes."  It  does  seem  to 
me  that  it  is  better,  as  mother  says,  to  help  the  living,  that 
there  may  be  no  more  pirates  on  the  tree,  for  we  can  not 
help  the  dead,  you  say. 

Mr  R.  No,  my  son,  we  can't  help  the  dead,  and  it  is 
true,  as  your  mother  says,  that  we  may  spend  our  time 
more  profitably  in  looking  up  the  living,  than  in  looking 
up  the  dead.     What  are  you  thinking  of,  my  son? 

/.  I  was  thinking,  sir,  that,  if  every  old  fimily  tree 
was  cut  down,  and  every  man  planted  a  new  one  for  him- 
self, we  should  have  some  better  trees  ;  for  it  is  easier  to 
rear  a  young  tree  than  to  improve  an  old  one,  especially 


9;j 

if  some  )i  the  braii-jlies  are  not  only  dead,  I  at  —  sus- 
pended. 

Mr.  R.  Your  simplicity,  my  child,  leads  you  'o  take  a 
better  view  of  the  subject  than  I  have  liitherto  taken.  It 
is  a  matter  of  curiosity  only  to  look  up  one's  pedigree, 
but  it  is  a  matter  of  duty  to  help  our  hving  neighbors. 
Tf  you  will  help  me,  we  will  plant  a  new  tree  this  very 
day,  and  the  first  step  shall  be  a  visit  to  aunt  Polly. 
Come,  will  you  go  with  me  ? 

/.  Yes,  father,  and  if  the  new  tree  don't  beat  the  old 
one,  it  shan't  be  because  I  neglected  it.  We'll  have  no 
men-killers  and  pirates  suspended  on  our  tree,  will  we, 
father? 


XLIV.     CRAMMING  IS  ILL-FEEDING. 

MRS.     MARVEL  j     HER      DAUGHTER      SOPHRONIA-ARAMINTA,      AND 
MISS    LEARNARD. 

Mrs.  M.     Are  you  Miss  Learnard  ? 

Miss  L.     That  is  my  name,  madam. 

Mrs  M.  Your  school  has  been  highly  recommended  to 
me  by  some  of  my  friends,  and  I  have  concluded  to  place 
my  daughter  under  your  care,  if  we  can  agree  upon  a  suit- 
able course  of  study.  Pray  what  do  you  teach.  Miss 
Learnard  ? 

Miss  L.  Every  thing,  madam.  It  will  not  do  to  say 
we  teach  only  what  is  useful  and  proper.  How  old  is  your 
little  girl?  ♦ 

Mrs.  M.  She  is  only  six,  but  then  she  is  a  child  of  un- 
common capacity. 

Miss  L.  She  can  not  have  studied  many  branches  yet, 
wliatever  she  may  intend  to  do  hereafter. 

Mrs.  M.  Indeed,  she  is  not  so  ignorant  as  you  seem  to 
suppose.  She  has  gone  through  botany,  geometry  and 
astronomy,  and  her  teacher  was  preparing  to  put  her  into 
algebre,  when  she  married  and  gave  up  her  school. 

Miss  L.  D-d  you  ever  examine  her  in  these  brandies 
madam  ? 


94  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

Mrs.  M.  O  yes,  indeed !  Sophronia-Araminta,  my 
love,  teil  the  lady  something  of  geometry  and  astronomy. 
What  is  astronomy,  my  love  ?  Ask  her  a  question,  Miss 
Learnard,  — any  question  you  please. 

Miss  L.     What  planet  do  we  inhabit,  my  dear  ? 

S.  A.     Hey? 

Miss  L.     What  do  you  live  on,  my  dear  ? 

S.  A.  O,  on  meat,  ma'am.  I  didn't  know  that  was 
what  you  meant. 

Mrs.  M.  No,  my  love,  the  lady  means,  what  do  you 
stand  on  now,  my  love,  on  what  do  you  stand? 

»S.  A.  On  my  feet,  mother,  does  she  think  I  stand  on 
my  head  ? 

Mrs.  M.  Sophronia-Araminta,  my  love,  you  have  for- 
gotten all  your  astronomy,  the  three  days  you  have  staid 
at  home.  But  now,  do  say  a  line  or  two  of  your  last  les- 
son to  the  lady,  — now  do,  love,  — that's  an  angel. 

*S  A.  Well  "  The  equinoxious  line  is  the  plane  of  the 
cliptic  stended  indefinitely  till  it  approximates  the  calyx 
or  flower  cup,  which  encloses  the  anthems,  for  the  two 
sides  of  an  isuckie  triangle  are  always  equal  to  the  hippo- 
potamus." 

Mrs.  M.  There,  miss  Learnard,  I  told  you  she  had  it 
in  her,  only  you  did  not  understand  the  best  method  of 
drawing  it  out.     I  knew  she  would  astonish  you. 

Miss  L.  She  does,  iitdeed,  madam.  (To  the  child.) 
You  speak,  my  dear,  of  the  plane  of  the  equator,  may  I 
ask  what  is  the  meaning  of  the  word  plane. 

S.  A\  Ugly,  ma'am,  I  should  think  every  body  knew 
that. 

Miss  L.     How  many  are  tliree  times  three,  my  dear  ? 

S.  A     Three  times  three? 

Miss  L.     Yes,  how  many  are  they  ? 

S.  A.  I  don  t  know.  Mrs.  Flare  never  taught  mo 
that.     She  said  everybody  knew  how  to  count. 

Miss  L.     She  taught  you  to  read  and  spell,  I  suppose. 

Mrs.  M.  No,  I  forbade  that.  I  wished  to  have  tlie 
mind  developed  without  being  frittered  away  in  attention 
to  such  unimportant  elements.  Mrs.  Flare  was  a  none- 
such for  this,  — a  real  seek-no-further.  I  fear  her  loss  will 
never  be  made  up  to  poor  Sophronia-Araminta. 


IOWLl's    lilNIRrD    DIALOGUES.  95 

Miss  L.  Miiclam.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  cannot  agree 
to  receive  yoiir  daughter,  if  I  am  to  pursue  the  course  you 
seem  to  ap[)rove.  Until  the  mind  is  ahle  to  comprehend, 
I  tliink  the  child  should  he  employed  upon  such  exercises 
as  require  litde  or  no  intellectual  effort. 

M.S.  M.  I  see  your  school  will  never  do  for  me.  I 
was  afraid  y(^u  only  tanght  the  lower  branches.  Come, 
Sophronia-Araminta,  let  us  go,  my  love.  Good  morning, 
Miss  Leamard,  I  am  sorry  you  can  not  teach  Sophronia- 
Araminta,  but  she  is  my  only  one,  and  it  is  my  duty  to 
see  her  properly  educated.     Good  bye. 


XL7.    WAR  vs,  GOSPEL. 

AN    INDIAN    CHIEF    AND    A    CHRISTIAN    MISSIONARY. 

Ind.  I  see  not  why  you  should  blame  us  for  taking  up 
the  tomahawk,  when  your  people  do  the  same  thing. 

Mis.  We  did  not  begin  the  war.  Your  tribe  struck  the 
first  blow,  when  we  were  all  disposed  for  peace. 

Ind.  If  you  did  not  begin  this  war,  it  was  because  the 
red  men  got  the  start  of  you.  When  two  Christian  nations 
figlit  each  other,  one  must  begin,  so  that,  beginning  is  not 
peculiar  to  savages,  as  you  call  our  people. 

Mis.  The  Gospel  that  we  bring  you,  offers  peace,  and 
you  will  not  accept  it. 

Ind.  Does  your  Gospel  order  you  to  make  war  on  those 
who  may  prefer  not  to  embrace  it  ? 

Mis.  No.  It  forbids  war,  and  we  are  forced  to  it  to 
prevent  what  you  persist  in. 

Ind.  Then  why  do  Christians  make  war  en  each  other, 
as  well  as  upon  us  ?  We  make  war  because  we  love  it, 
and  our  religion  does  not  prohibit  war. 

Mis.     Our  religion  authorizes  war. 

Tnd     With  whom? 

Mis.     With  our  enemies. 


96  fowf.e's  hundred  dialogues. 

[nd.  Your  holy  book  rer|iiii-es  you  all  to  love  your  ene- 
mies. 

Mis.     It  allows  us  to  punish  those  who  injure  us. 

Incl.  lleturn  not  evil  for  evil  are  among  the  words  it 
speaks,  as  I  am  told,  and  you  are  bound  to  pray  t!iat  you 
may  only  be  forgiven  by  the  Great  Spirit,  as  far  as  you 
forgive. 

Mis.  You  take  the  words  too  literally.  The  Great 
Spirit  could  not  m.ean  that  men  should  never  fight,  for 
men  are  men,  and  must. 

Incl.  The  Indian  takes  tlie  word  of  the  Great  Spirit  as 
it  is  spoken,  and  does  not  follow  only  where  it  suits  him. 
low.  say  the  Gospel  came  by  your  great  leader.  Say,  was 
he  a  brave? 

Mis.  No,  he  never  fought,  and  always  has  been  called 
the  Prince  of  Peace. 

Lid.  More  and  more  strange  I  If  he  did  never  fight, 
and  ordered  all  his  followers  to  love  each  other,  and  to  love 
their  enemies,  your  people  must  be  hypocrites  and  dis- 
obedient to  make  war,  and  yet  more  blood  is  shed  by 
Christians  than  by  infidels. 

Mis.  You  understand  no  other  argument  than  war, 
and,  therefore,  we  are  compelled  to  fight,  or  suffer  you  to 
do  us  wrong. 

Ind.  Our  standard  rules  of  right  and  wrong  may  differ. 
You  think  it  right  to  seize  our  country  without  our  consent. 
We  think  this  wrong,  and  we  resist.  If  rightly  I  remem- 
ber words  that  I  have  heard,  your  Gospel  orders  you  to 
do  as  you  would  be  done  unto.     -Say,  am  I  right  ? 

Mis.  The  Gospel  orders  thus,  I  must  confess,  but  you 
are  savages. 

Ind.  And  does  the  Gospel  say  the  rule  applies  to  civil- 
ized and  not  to  savage  men  ? 

Mis.  No,  but  'tis  plain  that  civilized"  men  can  better 
cultivate  and  use  the  land  that  savages  leave  desolate. 
The  Great  Spirit  intende<l  all  the  earth  to  be  subdued  and 
cultivated. 

lad.  Who  is  to  judge  of  what  the  Spirit  means.  We 
can  not  judge  what  mean  our  fellow  men.  The  destitute 
robber  who  should  strip  the  miser  of  his  gold,  might  plead 
his  want  oi  it,  and  the  better  use  he  did  intend  to  put  it 


FOWLE  S  HUNDRED  DIALOGUES.  97 

lo,  but  would  this  argument  excuse  him  in  a  Christian 
cx)urt? 

Mis.  Perhaps  no^,  but  the  favored  race  must  be  the 
judge. 

Ind.  The  judge  should  always  lean  to  the  weak  and 
ignorant,  who  can  not  assert  their  rights,  or  do  not  know 
tliem. 

Mis,  If  you  had  lived  in  Christian  lands  you  had  not 
reasoned  thus. 

Ind.  I  will  not  live  there  then.  I  do  prefer  the  igno- 
rance which  can  not  truth  pervert,  and  make  the  words 
of  the  Great  Spirit  contradict  themselves. 

Mis.  'Tis  evident  the  Gospel  can  not  have  free  course, 
while  every  precept  thus  is  nulhfied  by  our  example.  Red 
man,  here  is  the  Bible.  Read  and  study  it,  and  then  in- 
terpret for  yourself  Hold  not  the  Gospel  false  because  we 
Christians  are  unfaithful. 

Ind.  At  the  last  council  of  our  tribes  it  was  agreed  that 
we  should  missionaries  send  to  teach  the  white  men  what 
the  red  man  thinks,  and  I  have  now  your  presence  sought 
to  give  you  the  first  lesson.  You  have  heard  it  so  pa- 
tiently, that  I  shall  not  as  you  do,  use  the  tomahawk 
(showing  it)  until  I  lose  all  hope  of  your  conversion.  To- 
morrow I  shall  seek  your  settlements,  and  try  to  make 
your  people  reverence  the  Great  Spirit  of  the  Indian's  faith, 
and  learn  obedience. 


XLVI.    AMBITION'S  EEST. 

PYRRHUS    AND    CYNEAS. 

Pyrrkus.  Cyneas,  quit  your  fears.  I  twice  have  met 
the  Roman  legions,  and  have  shown  myself  at  least  their 
equal.  When  I  have  added  to  my  kingdom  certain  States 
that  cannot  long  resist  my  arms,  I  shall  advance  on  Rome, 
whom  now  it  may  be  well  to  pacify. 


98 

Cyneas.  Your  majesty  then  does  not  yet  intend  to  stop 
in  your  career  of  victory  ? 

Fyr.  No,  no  I  I  shall  pursue  the  glorious  hunt  as  long 
a.s  there  is  game.  The  world  shalrown  that  Alexander 
is  not  to  be  named  with  the  great  Pyrrhus,  and  all  the 
fame  of  Macedonia's  son  shall  be  extinguished  in  the 
greater  blaze  Epiriis  shall  enkindle. 

Cyn.  The  world  already  thinks  that  Pyrrhus  full 
enough  has  done  for  glory. 

Pyr.  He  has  done  nothing,  wiiile  a  State  remains  that 
does  not  own  his  rule. 

Cyn  What  conquest  then  does  Pyrrhus  next  propose, 
now  that  Tarentum's  thine  at  such  a  cost,  that  Pyrrhus 
said,  "another  victory  like  that  would  ruin  us." 

Pyr.  Your  memory  retains  my  darker  thoughts.  All 
now  is  full  of  hope.  What  says  the  Roman  Senate  to  my 
proposal  for  a  peace? 

Cyn.  "  If  Pyrrhus  wishes  peace,  Rome  treats  not  with 
him  till  he  quits  Italia's  shores." 

Pyr.  Tlien  we  must  fight  it  out ;  and,  when  I  have 
conquered  Italy,  then  Sicily  will  next  invite  my  arms. 

Cyn,     And  Sicily  subdued,  what  next  ? 

Pyr.     Then  I  shall  cross  the  sea  to  Carthage. 

Cyn.     And  then  ? 

Pyr.  Then  all  Africa  shall  bow  sLibmissive  at  my 
feet. 

Cyn.  And  when  all  Africa  has  owned  thy  power, 
whither  will  Pyrrhus  turn  his  arms  ? 

Pyr.  To  the  East.  Far  as  the  rising  sun,  the  name 
of  Pyrrhus  shall  be  known  and  feared. 

Cyn.  And  when  the  woild  shaU  all  be  conquered,  and 
no  spot  be  left  to  tempt  thine  arms,  wnat  then  does  Pyrrhus 
to  himself  propose  ? 

Fyr.     Then  I  will  rest. 

Cyn.  May  Cyneas  ask  "  What  hinders  Pyrrhus  7WU 
from  taking  rest  ?" 

J^yr.      L    ^'le  is  no  rest  while  glory  is  in  view. 

^'y-  iioii  of  glory  is  secured,  repose  may  now  bo 

'^•»J*('    '•  f'lt   I  ■  w   ()  can  safely  coiuit  ? 

-  J-  -.c\..l^  .  ..  ii.tujc.      Vuu   iULi.st  own  that  1 

more  moderate  am  than  Alexander,  for,  when  the  world 


FOAVLE  S    HUNDRED    DIAIOGUES.  99 

wa*^  his,  he  wept  that  no  more  worlds  remained  for  him  to 
conquer.  I  now  declare  that  when  the  world  is  mine, 
I'll  freely  rest. 

Cyn.     My  Lord,  the  king  I 

Pi/r.  Well,  what?  You  would  not  turn  and  leave  me 
to  advance  alone  ?  Cyneas  is  more  philosopher  than  sol- 
dier, but  he  is  no  coward, 

Cyn.  No,  Pyrrhus,  not  a  coward ;  but  the  immortaj 
gods, — who  rule  the  world,  and  mark  out  all  the  future, 
not  as  men  wish  or  plan,  but  as  a  sterner  wisdom  foreor- 
dains,—  the  immortal  gods,  great  Pyrrhus,  never  smile  on 
glory  as  an  end  ;  and  he  who  has  no  better  motive  for  ex- 
tending empire  at  the  dreadful  cost  all  war  involves,  can 
hardly  hope  for  heaven's  co-operation  in  the  work,  or  for 
a  moment's  rest  when  it  is  done.  The  gods  make  instru- 
ments of  men,  and  throw  them  by  when  used,  and  Pyr- 
rhus  

Fyr.  Will  think  of  all  thou  hast  said,  when  he  is  a 
pliilosopher,  and  not  a  warrior  at  an  army's  head.  Come, 
let  us  to  the  tent. 


XLVII.    YOUNG  AMERICA. 


JACK. 

SAM. 

JIM. 

TIM. 

FRANK. 

BOB. 

DICK. 

BEN. 

TOM. 

BILL. 

Jack.  Hope  of  the  rising  generation,  I  am  glad  to  see 
you  here.  We,  who  have  called  the  meeting,  have  long 
been  of  the  opinion  that  nothing  is  to  be  ex])ected  from 
our  fathers,  and  it  is  high  time  for  us  to  rise  in  the  majesty 
of  our  strength,  and  show  them  what  they  should  have 
done. 

Bob.  That  our  consultation  may  be  conducted  with  de- 
corum, I  propose  that  a  moderator  be  appointed. 

Sam.     I  second  the  motion,  and  nominate  Jack. 

Bob.  If  it  be  your  minds  that  Jack  preside  over  this 
meeting,  you  will  all  say,  ay. 


.100 

All — Ay  !  ay  ! 

Jack.  Gentlemen,  I  am  proud  of  the  honor  you  confer 
upon  me  ;  and,  if  the  result  of  your  deliberations  shall  be, 
as  I  trust  it  will,  regeneration  of  the  world,  I  shall  ask  no 
other  immortality,  than  to  have  presided  on  this  occasion. 
Gentlemen,  we  have  assembled  to  take  into  consideration 
the  coiidition  of  the  world,  its  grievances  and  its  prospects. 
It  is  to  be  hoped  that  every  gentleman  will  freely  express 
his  mind,  that  our  united  wisdom  may  shake  the  old  walls 
of  conservatism,  and  level  all  the  old  mountains  of  abuse. 
Speak  freely,  gentlemen,  the  whole  subject  is  before  you. 

Dick.  First  and  foremost,  Mr.  Moderator,  I  move  that 
we  do  away  with  all  religion.  Sir,  ever  since  i.  came  to 
years  of  discretion,  1  have  been  annoyed  by  certain  per- 
sons, who  are  continually  telling  us  ai^xmt  what  is  riglit 
and  what  is  wrong.  I  hold  all  churches  to  be  batteries 
raised  against  freedom,  and  all  priests  to  be  common  nuis- 
ances. Sir,  as  a  man  thinketh  so  is  he,  and  if  he  don't 
choose  to  think,  it  is  nobody's  business.  I  move,  there- 
fore, sir.  to  abolish  all  religion. 

Jim.  I  move,  sir,  to  abolish  all  schools.  Why,  look 
you,  sir,  ever  since  I  was  born,  I  have  been  compelled  to 
waste  half  my  time  in  the  school- room.  And  what,  sir, 
is  the  school  room  ?  A  prison,  sir,  a  prison,  where  the 
quiet  and  obedient  are  at  rest,  but  where  all  who  have  any 
just  idea  of  the  dignity  of  human  nature  and  the  rights  of 
man  are  oppressed  and  punished.  Sir,  if  we  exercise  the 
right  of  speech,  a  right  which  eve  a  savages  allow,  we 
are  arraigned  and  punished.  If  we  exercise  the  power  of 
locomotion,  which  distinguishes  us  from  the  trees,  sir,  we 
are  flogged  and  beaten  into  statues.  If  we  exercise  our 
wills,  sir,  we  are  trampled  down  to  slaves.  If,  exercising 
our  inherent  right  to  avoid  pain  and  suifering,  we  run 
away  from  the  school-room,  we  are  called  truants,  sir,  a 
hue  and  cry  is  raised,  we  are  seized  as  culprits,  who  ha/e 
escaped  from  prison,  and  are  brought  back  and  scourged. 
Sir,  they  who  like  slavery  may  submit  to  it,  but  I  say, 
down  with  all  schools  ! 

Ben.  I  say,  down  with  all  laws.  Sir,  there  is  no 
greater  enemy  to  liberty  than  what  is  called  law.  We 
are  not  allowed  a  voice  in  making  the  laws,  sir,  and  yet 


101 

we  are  required  to  conform  to  them.  Our  fathers  resisted 
such  opnression,  and  it  becomes  us,  their  sons,  to  rise  as 
they  did,  and  pledge  our  Hves,  our  fortunes  and  our  sa- 
cred honor  to  resist  such  oppression.  Sir,  I  cannot  drink 
a  glass  of  gin,  1  can  not  smoke  my  cigar,  I  can  not  have 
a  bit  of  fun  and  knock  a  watchman  down,  without  being 
interrupted  by  some  agent  of  our  oppressors.  Why  have 
I  a  stomach,  sir,  but  to  eat  and- drink?  Why  have  I 
lungs  but  to  speak  and  smoke?  What  is  the  atmosphere 
given  for,  but  to  fashion  words  and  dissipate  smoke.  Sir, 
these  inborn  rights  have  been  invaded,  and  I  say  with  the 
patriot  of  old,  "  give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death  I" 

Tim.  Sir,  I  like  the  spirit  of  the  gentlemen.  I  am  glad 
to  see  these  symptoms  of  returning  reason  in  the  rising 
generation.  But,  sir,  it  seems  to  me  that,  by  touching  the 
pulpit,  the  schools  and  the  courthouse,  we  are  only  trifling 
with  the  evils  that  prevail.  Why,  sir,  what  supports  all 
these  abuses  but  the  Government.  The  government,  sir, 
is  at  the  bottom  of  the  mischief,  and  I  move  the  abolition 
of  all  government.  Man  was  made  free,  sir,  and  govern- 
ment is  an  accident,  sir,  a  usurpation,  incousi'otent  with 
perfect  freedom.  I  care  not  what  the  form  is,  .-^ir,  it  is  all 
based  upon  oppression ;  the  many  are  made  subservient 
to. the  few,  the  poor  to  the  rich,  the  free  to  what  are  self- 
styled  the  orderly.  Where  there  is  no  gx)vernrnent  thej;e 
is  no  oppression  in  the  shapeof  morality  |ijii'd; religion,  ed^w; 
cation  and  law.  When  every  one  doe's*  whaf  is'  right  in 
his  own  eyes,  and  not  till  then,  ^'\v,'h\mViMe\^'ii^f,6i'S^\ni^ 
perfect  liberty,  and,  therefore,  I  mo Ve", 'that -t^bie*  first' thkig 
we  do  shall  be  to  put  an  end  to  all  government. 

Tom.  I  hke  all  the  sentiments  of  my  noble  companions. 
I  believe  there  will  be  no  rational  liberty  till  churches  are 
turned  into  theatres,  court-houses  into  tavern^',  schools  into 
club  rooms,  but,  sir,  it  is  one  thing  to  propo!  e  to  point  out 
these  abuses  and  another  to  put  them  down  I  remember, 
sir,  a  story  that  I  have  read  in  Shakspeare  )r  somewhere 
else,  of  a  council  held  by  the  rats  to  see  h'  w  they  should 
get  rid  of  the  cat.  They  all  agreed  in  re  jard  to  her  op- 
pression, they  all  agreed  to  put  a  bell  ai-.und  her  neck, 
but  when  the  question  was,  who  should  ^  at  it  round,  nc* 

9* 


102  FOWLe's    hundred    DIAl.OGUF.S. 

one  came  forward.  Sir,  Government  is  this  cat,  and  we 
are  the  rats,  the  oppressed  down-trodden  rats. 

Frank.  Mice,  Mr.  Moderator,  but  mice,  who  hope  to 
grow  into  rats.  Sir,  if  the  gentleman  here  means  to  in- 
sinuate that  no  one  here  has  the  courage  to  put  the  bell 
around  the^neck  of  our  oppressor,  I  give  him  the  he,  sir. 
What  man  dares  do,  I  dare  ;  —  and  here  I  pledge  myself  to 
lead  the  assault  if  any  dare  to  follow  me  ;  or,  if  unsupport- 
ed, to  go  alone. 

Bill.  I  move  a  mint-julep  and  a  long-nine  for  each  per- 
son present,  in  favor  of  the  noble  sentiment  of  the  speaker 
last  up. 

Sa'in.     I  second  the  motion. 

Jack.  If  it  be  your  minds,  gentlemen,  to  drink  a  mint- 
julep,  and  smoke  a  long-nine,  in  honor  of  our  champion, 
you  will  please  to  adjourn  to  the  bar-room.  But,  before 
going,  allow  me  to  congratulate  you  upon  the  pros})ect  of 
reform  which  is  opening  before  us.  Allow  me  to  say,  that 
no  abuse  can  stand  before  such  enlightened  and  deter- 
mined minds.  Young  America,  sir,  will  yet  deliver  the 
world  from  bondage,  and  restore  to  man  his  inalienable 
rights  I  would  only  recommend  that  no  blow  be  struck 
until  we  are  fully  prepared,  and  then  let  a  policeman  ask 
us  it*  our  mothers  know  we  are  out,  if  he  thinks  best. 


XLVIII.     THE  TEACHER  TRIED. 


A  SCHOOL    COMMITTEE    MAN    AND    A    CANDIDATE. 

Comvnittee.  Pray,  Miss,  what  education  have  you  re- 
ceived to  authorize  you  to  apply  for  the  office  of  teaciier 
of  our  District  School  ? 

Teacher.  I  have  attended  the  district  schools  in  my 
own  town,  and  have  been  two  years  at  academies  and 
Qormal  schools. 


FOWLERS   HUNDRED    DIALOGUES.  103 

C.  Do  you  feel  competent  to  teach  all  the  branches 
required  to  be  taught  in  a  common  school? 

T.  All,  except  English  Grammar,  and  this  1  do  not 
know  thoroughly,  because  no  teacher  that  we  have  had 
was  able  to  instruct  me.  I  hope  to  learn  something  by 
teaching  others. 

C.  And  you  wish  to  practise  upon  the  children  of  our 
district? 

T.  No,  Sir,  not  unless  I  am  found  equal  to  any  one 
you  can  procure  for  the  salary  you  pay. 

C.  O  ho !  you  think  you  are  worth  the  money  we 
pa} ,  though  not  fit  to  teach  such  a  sciiool  as  we  ought  to 
have  ? 

T.  I  do  not  say  so,  Sir.  I  hope  I  am  sensible  of  my 
deficiencies. 

C.     What  do  you  know  of  school  government? 

T.  Nothing,  Sir,  by  experience,  except  what  I  have 
learned  by  endurance  as  a  pupil. 

C.     What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? 

T.  I  mean  that,  by  reading,  and  by  watching  the  effect 
of  various  methods  of  discipline  upon  my  own  mmd,  I 
have  formed  an  opinion  upon  the  subject,  and  should  be 
guided  by  it,  did  I  become  a  teacher. 

C.     O,  you  have?     Well,  what  may  that  opinion  be? 

T.     That  I  should  never  strike  my  pupils. 

C.     Never  ?  that  is  a  strong  word. 

T.  I  believe  that  a  good  child  needs  no  whipping,  and 
a  bad  one  never  is  profited  by  it, 

C  And  you  wish  to  introduce  such  notions  into  our 
schools  ? 

T.  I  must  act  up  to  my  convictions,  until  I  find  them 
erroneous.     I  may  find  myself  in  error. 

C.  Your  notions  are  all  wrong,  utterly  wrong,  con- 
trary to  the  word  of  God,  and  subversive  of  all  govern- 
ment. 

T.  I  trust  not,  Sir.  Corporeal  pain  is  allowed  to  be 
an  evil,  and  so  is  disobedience,  and  if  I  strike  a  child  foi 
disobedience,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  return  evil  for  evil, 
which  the  Gospel  forbids. 

C.     Pain  is  not  an  evil  when  it  is  inflicted  for  good. 

T.     Then  there  can  be  no  evil  in  disobedience,  for  all 


104  fovvle's  hundred  dialogues. 

offences  aie  overruled  for  good,  and  disobedience  among 
tlie  rest,  I  think  the  forbearance  and  long  suffering  of 
God  are  worthy  of  imitation. 

C.  Nonsense  nonsense  I  If  we  may  not  puinsli  men 
for  crimes,  we  may  as  well  have  no  government 

T.     Do  you  call  school  offences  criiues  ? 

C.  They  are  the  germs  of  crmie,  and  must  be  treated 
as  crimes,  for  they  will  soon  bear  fruit.  Besides,  if  any 
thing  is  clear  to  my  mind,  it  is,  that,  so  long  as  man  is 
man,  Ije  will  need  the  rod;  "Spare  the  rod  and  you  spoil 
the  child." 

T.  I  prefer  to  spare  the  body  of  the  child,  and  apply 
my  discipline  to  the  mind  and  heart.  I  have  never  lliiied 
to  overcome  evil  with  good,  when  I  have  had  patience 
and  self-control. 

G.  Nonsense,  I  tell  you,  this  beautiful  theory  is  all 
nonsense. 

T.     Are  not  you  a  lawyer.  Sir  ? 

C.  Yes,  and  I  have  seen  too  much  of  human  nature  to 
become  the  dupe  of  moral  suasion. 

T.  When  a  man  commits  an  offence,  he  is  entitled  to 
a  trial  by  jury,  I  believe ;  and  pray,  Sir,  why  is  not  a 
scholar  entitled  to  a  similar  trial  ? 

C.     Children  are  not  men. 

T.  They  are  "  the  germs  of  men,  and  must  be  treated 
as  men."  If  weak,  they  are  the  more  entitled  to  protec- 
tion. 

G.  They  have  no  judgment  and  cannot  understand 
reason. 

T.  This  can  be  no  reason  for  punishing  them.  Striking 
a  horse  will  not  put  judgment  into  him. 

G.  Suppose  one  of  the  children  should  strike  you,  what 
would  you  do? 

T.  I  would  try  to  imitate  Him  who  was  smitten  and 
scourged. 

G.  You  would  be  turned  out  of  school  by  the  chil- 
dren. 

T.  Not  if  the  child  had  done  wrong.  All  but  the  offen- 
der would  be  on  my  side.  If  I  flogged  him,  some  m'ght 
pity  him,  even  if  he  was  guilty. 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  105 

C.  They  would  imitate  him,  if  they  could  do  it  with 
impunity. 

T.  Does  the  pardoning  of  a  sinner,  increase  the  num- 
ber of  sinners  ? 

G.     The  certainty  of  punishment  prevents  crime. 

T,  This  is  by  no  means  proved,  and  1  think  it  may, 
witli  safety,  be  said,  that  forgiveness  prevents  crime  as 
often  as  punishment  does.  The  number  of  times  that  a 
man  should  forgive  his  brother  is  four  hundred  and  ninety 
at  least,  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  He  who  assigned 
this  limit,  knew  what  the  effect  of  forgiveness  is  upon  the 
human  heart.     He  who  is  forgiven  much  will  love  much. 

C.  Young  woman,  you  shall  have  our  school,  not  be- 
cause I  agree  with  you  in  this  matter,  but  because  you 
appear  to  be  thoughtful,  and  to  have  examined  the  sub- 
ject. Mx)stof  the  young  teachers  whom  I  have  examined 
have  no  opinion  upon  the  subject,  and  in  such  I  have  little 
confidence. 

T.  I  thank  you.  Sir.  I  had  no  expectation  of  such  a 
result,  but  I  could  not  stifle  my  convictions. 

C  Try  your  experiment,  and  we  will  have  another 
talk  at  the  end  of  the  term. 


XLIX.     THE  QUAKER  AND  THE  ROBBER. 

B.obber.  {Presenting  a  pistol.)  Stand,  stranger,  and 
deliver  your  purse  ! 

Quaker.  Is  this  the  way  thou  treatest  strangers  ?  Me- 
thinks  thou  wouldst  do  better  to  protect  them. 

R.     Have  done  with  words.     I  want  your  money. 

Q.  I  have  not  done  with  my  money,  and  can  spare 
my  words  better. 

R.  Give  me  your  money  or  your  life  I  You  under- 
stand me. 

Q.  Thy  words  I  understand  right  well,  bnt  it  is  be 
cause  I  think  tJwu  /lost  not  understand  them  that  I  hesi- 
tate. 


106 

R.     Youi  money  or  your  life,  this  instant  I 

Q.  Dost  thon  mean,  friend,  tliat  I  may  have  my  choice, 
and  give  thee  only  one,  and  which  I  please  ? 

R.     Have  you  any  money  ?     Speak  the  truth. 

Q.  Thoii  shouldst  have  ascertained  this  fact  before 
thy  threat.     What  if  I  have  money  ? 

R.     Then  I  must  have  it. 

Q.  And  if  I  have  none?  What  would  my  life  profit 
thee,  if  thou  shouldst  take  it  ? 

R.  If  you  say  you  have  no  money,  I  will  not  harm 
you. 

Q.     I  can  not  say  so,  it  would  be  untrue. 

R.     Then  instantly  deliver  it,  or  I  fire  I 

Q.  It  is  not  mine,  friend,  and  therefore  do  I  parley.  — 
Had  it  been  mine,  I  would  have  given  it  to  thee,  not  to 
save  my  life,  but  to  save  thee  from  a  crime. 

R,     I  must  have  the  money,  whether  thine  or  not, 

Q.  Thou  must  not.  The  money  is  given  me  in  trust, 
and  no  pain  or  peril  can  make  it  right  for  me  to  give  it 
up. 

R.  I  will  not  waste  more  words.  Give  me  the  money 
or  I  fire. 

Q.  Then  thou  mayest  fire.  'Twould  be  as  wrong  for 
me  to  give,  as  'tis  for  thee  to  take  what  is  not  mine  or 
thine. 

R.     Do  you  not  fear  death  ? 

Q.     Not  half  so  much  as  to  be  called  unfaithful. 

R  Most  men  would  give  up  without  a  word,  the  loss 
not  being  theirs.  I  knew  you  had  the  money  and  fol- 
lowed you  to  get  it. 

Q.  Thou  didst  not  know  me,  friend,  or  thou  wouldst 
not  have  followed  me  for  such  a  purpose.  If  thou  killest 
me  and  takest  the  money,  thou  committest  two  crimes, 
murder  and  robbery.  If  I  give  thee  the  money  of  another: 
when  I  can  refuse  it,  I  commit  a  breach  of  trust. 

R.     Well,  who  cares  for  that  ?     The  money,  or  I  fire  ! 

Q.  The  money  is  in  my  pocket,  and  thee  has  power 
to  take  it,  but  I  can  not  give  it  thee. 

R.  O,  that's  the  etiquette.  Hand  over  then.  (He puts 
his  pistol  under  his  arm,  and  stoops  to  search  the  Quaker^ 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  107 

ivko  draivs  the  pistol  by  its  muzzle  from  under  the  rcMer's 
arm,  and  springing  aside  turns  it  upon  him,  saying,) 

Q.  Thee  has  no  money,  I  suppose,  or  I  could  say  to 
thee,  Thy  money  or  thy  life ! 

K.     I  am  at  your  mercy  I 

Q.  I  do  not  take  this  weapon  to  harm  thee,  but  to  pre 
vent  thy  doing  wrong.  Now  I  have  the  power  and  can 
talk  with  thee  more  freely.     What  is  thy  need  of  money  ? 

R,  I  have  no  means  of  living,  and  am  destitute  ot 
friends. 

Q.     Hast  thou  tried  to  get  honest  employment  ? 

R.  I  have  long  tried  in  vain.  You  were  the  first  man 
I  attacked  when  mad  with  misery. 

Q.  'T  was  fortunate  I  did  not  (ear  thee.  I  knew  thou 
wert  a  novice  by  thy  manner.  The  old  cat  never  mews 
before  she  strikes  her  prey.  Tell  me  what  sum  didst  thou 
expect  by  killing  —  nay,  I  will  not  say  by  killing,  but  by 
robbing  me. 

R.  I  was  informed  that  you  had  a  hundred  dollars 
with  you. 

Q.     And  thou  wilt  be  contented  with  that  sum  ? 

R.  'T  would  make  me  happy,  and  would  save  my  fa- 
mily from  death,  and  me  from  crime. 

Q.  I'll  give  it  thee  with  all  my  heart,  but  thou  must  go 
with  me  and  get  it.  I  have  no  money  here  of  my  own, 
as  I  have  told  thee 

R.  I  dare  not  go,  for  you  may  deliver  me  to  the 
magistrate 

Q,  I  can  compel  thee,  but  thou  mayst  carry  the  wea- 
pon {giving  the  pistol)  for  I  do  not  fear  thee.  It  is  my 
duty  to  relieve  thee,  and  if  thy  family  is  suffering,  we 
must  lose  no  time. 

R.     God  bless  you  ! 

Q  Does  thee  pray,  too  I  Then  surely  thee  is  not 
wholly  lost.     Give  me  thy  hand,  and  let  us  hasten  home. 


108  FOWLE  S    HUNDRED    DIALOGUES. 

L.    THE  INDIAN,  OR  RIGHT  AND  MIGHT. 

GOVERNOR MINGO,  AN    INDIAN,  OFFICER   AND    GUARDS. 

Governor.  Prisoner,  what  have  you  to  say  before  the 
penalty  of  death  you  have  incurred  be  all  enforced.  What 
say  you  ? 

Mingo.  Nothing.  I  can  not  stoop  to  plead  for  life, — 
and  right, — there  is  no  right  for  the  red  man. 

Gov.  Why  speak  of  right?  You  took  up  arms  and 
failed,  and  are  my  prisoner.  If  I  had  been  your  prisoner 
instead,  you  never  would  have  spared  my  life. 

Mingo.  Use  your  power.  But  had  my  weapons  been 
as  true  as  are  the  words  that  I  could  speak,  you  never  had 
o'erpowered  me. 

Gov.     Were  you  not  fairly  conquered  ? 

Mijigo.     Yes,  and  am  ready  to  endure  the  forfeit. 

Gov,     That  forfeit,  by  the  law,  is  death. 

Mingo.  By  what  law  ?  I  own  no  law  but  that  of 
force,  and  that  I  must  submit  to. 

Gov.  You  have  made  war  upon  this  settlement  of  the 
French  king,  and  by  the  laws  of  France  are  doomed  to 
die. 

Mingo.  I  never  owned  the  king,  and  am  not  holden  by 
his  laws.  Had  I  invaded  France,  established  on  her  coast 
a  colony,  attacked  the  French,  and  tried  my  prisoners  by 
the  Indian's  code,  their  case  had  been  as  mine.  You  are 
the  offender,  and  not  I. 

Ojficer.     Shall  I  stop  his  mouth  ? 

Gov.  No,  let  him  speak.  Say,  Indian,  why  I  should 
not  do  by  you  as  you  have  done  by  us.  You  show  no 
mercy  to  your  prisoners. 

Mingo.  If  you  will  promise  me  no  mercy,  I  will  speak, 
but  otherwise  'twill  seem  as  if  I  plead  for  the  life  I  fear 
not  to  lay  dov^n. 

Gov.  Have  then  your  way,  and  speak  as  plainly  as 
you  please. 


^^ 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  109 

Mi?igo.  Is  it  French  law  that  he  who  breaks  into  a 
a  house,  and  he  who  invades  France,  offend  ahke. 

Goo.  Exactly  so.  The  house  is  the  man's  castle  as 
the  State  is  the  king's  ;  no  man  can  enter  either  without 
offence. 

Mingo.  .Doth  it  matter  whether  the  man  be  high  or 
low,  ignorant  or  learned,  polished  or  uncivil? 

Gov.     Not  at  all.     7.'he  law  protects  the  man  as  man. 

Mingo.  Have  patience.  If  a  rich  man  attacks  the 
humble  hovel  of  the  poor,  and  in  the  afiray  is  killed,  what 
says  your  law  ? 

Gov.     The  poor  man  is  not  guilty. 

Mingo.  Bear  with  me.  If  the  assailant  is  made  pris- 
oner, and  the  captor  fears  that  others  just  behind  may  be 
deterred  from  a  renewed  attack,  may  he  the  prisoner 
slay  ? 

Gov.  Yes,  if  his  life  endangers  his  who  holds  him. 
But  why  all  these  questions  ? 

Mingo.  The  Indian  for  uncounted  years  had  made  his 
home  on  these  fair  shores.  This  was  his  State,  his  liouse  ; 
but  strangers  CMiiie  and  took  possession,  forcing  him  to 
yield  step  after  :stpp,  till,  when  no  further  steps  were  pos- 
sible, he  turned  on  his  pursuer,  who  would  not  retreat,  and 
so  was  slain  enforcing  wrong. 

Gov.  I  see  the  application.  The  right,  you  think,  is 
with  the  invaded  man. 

Mingo.  Hear  me.  The  Indian,  being  wronged  and 
feeling  he  was  weak,  saw  no  way  of  escape  but  to  des- 
troy the  invader.  This  he  has  done  ;  this  he  had  a  right 
to  do.  But  when  the  invader  gets  him  in  his  power,  he 
has  no  right  to  slay  one  he  has  come  to  injure.  Every  act 
done  to  enforce  a  crime  but  deepens  it. 

Gov.    You  forget  that  we  have  bought  your  land. 

Mingo.  Never  till  you  had  seized  it,  and  then  a  sale, 
like  a  captive's  promise,  is  not  valid.  'Twas  under- 
stood that  what  we  sold  we  could  not  keep  from  those 
wlic  held  it,  and  the  price  was  not  what  land  was  worth, 
but  what  the  invader  chose  to  give. 

Gov.     There  is  a  show  of  truth  in  wliat  you  say. 

Mmgo.     One  word  mora     You  call  us  ignorant  and 


110  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

savage.  We  are  both,  and  hence  two  claims  arise.  If 
we  are  savage,  we  claim  that  'tis  unjust  to  try  or  judge 
us  by  the  laws  of*  civilized,  enlightened  States.  If  we  are 
rude,  we  claim  protection  from  the  wise  and  powerfid,  and 
every  eicroachment  on  their  part  is  doubly  criminal.  I've 
done.     Now  bid  your  headsman  do  his  worst. 

Gou.     I  can  not  put  to  death  a  man  I  so  respect. 

Mingo.     I  have  your  promise  and  shall  hold  you  to  it. 

Goo.  True,  you  have,  but  when  I  gave  it  'twas  not  un- 
derstood. It  would  be  wrong  in  me  to  take  your  life,  for, 
a  promise  to  do  wrong,  like  one  given  on  compulsion,  can 
never  hold  the  maker.  I  give  you  life  and  wish  you  for 
my  friend. 

Mingo.  My  country's  foe  can  never  be  my  friend.  If 
1  am  suifered  to  go  free,  I  shall  not  cease  to  use  the  means 
that  the  Great  Spirit  may  provide,  to  exterminate  the  in- 
vaders of  my  country.  I  give  you  warning  now,  that 
you  may  not  complain  when  you  discover  that  the  red 
man  you  have  spared,  is  the  invader's  stern,  eternal 
foe. 

Gov.     Still  I  say  go  free  ! 

Officer.     My  Lord,  there's  danger  in  this  man. 

Gov.  There's  manhood  too,  and  I'll  not  be  outdone. 
Unbind  him.  (He  does  so.)  You  are  free.  This  passport 
(handing  a  card)  will  conduct  you  safely  to  the  forest. 
Fare  you  well ! 


LI.     THE  TURNED  HEAD. 


MR.    DOLOROSO,  DR.    KEEN,    JAMES    AND   THOMAS. 

James.     What  could  have  turned  master's  head  so  ? 

Thomas.  I  wish  I  knew.  He  certainly  is  not  crazy, 
and  yet  he  acts  so  comically  that  I  feel  ready  to  burst 
with  laughter. 

James.    Have  }ou  called  the  doctor? 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  Ill 

Thomas.     Yes,  and  expect  hira  every  moment. 

Janus.  There  he  is.  Do  you  receive  him,  and  I  will 
go  and  lead  master  in.  ( The  Doctor  enters  on  Ofie  side  ; 
and  Ja'ines  goes  out  on  the  other. ) 

Tho7nas.  I  am  glad  you  have  come,  sir ;  master  is 
strangely  taken. 

Doctor.     How  long  has  he  been  ill  ? 

Thomas.     This  is  the  third  day. 

Doctor.     What  appears  to  be  the  matter  ? 

Tliomas.  He  drank  too  much,  and  when  he  came  to 
his  senses,  he  had  adopted  the  whim  that  his  head  had 
been  cut  off,  and  stuck  on  again  with  the  back  in  front. 
We  have  tried  to  r.eason  him  out  of  the  notion,  but  all  we 
can  say  only  makes  him  more  stiffly  insist  upon  it. 

Doctor.  You  can  never  reason  men  out  of  such  folly. 
Here  he  comes.  You  must  fall  in  with  his  whims,  let 
him  have  his  way,  and  do  as  I  bid  you. 

Enter  Mr.  Doloroso  and  James.^ 

Mr.  D.  Ah,  Doctor,  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  but  I  fear 
you  have  come  too  late,  too  late  to  help  me. 

Doctor.     What  seems  to  be  the  trou])le  ? 

Mr.  D.  O,  1  have  met  with  a  dreadful  reverse.  Some 
robbers  attacked  me  on  my  way  home,  and  cut  off  my 
head,  to  take  out  my  brains,  but  I  got  it  from  them,  and 
in  trying  to  put  it  on  in  the  dark,  I  reversed  it,  and  there 
is  no  remedy.  You  see  my  face  is  on  the  back  of  my 
head. 

Doctor.  Sure  enough,  you  have  made  a  great  mistake. 
You  should  have  sent  for  a  surgeon,  and  not  have  trusted 
to  your  own  skill.  Let  me  see.  {He  turns  the  head  sud- 
denly from  right  to  left,  and  left  to  right,  as  if  examining  it, 
and  then  says)  —  It  is  loose  yet,  and  I  think  it  will  not  be 
difficult  to  take  it  off,  and  set  it  right. 

Mr.  D.     Do  you  really  think  so,  Doctor? 

Doctor.  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  but  you  must  allow  me 
to  manage  you  in  my  own  way. 


*  Mr.  1).  may  wear  coat  and    vest  with   the  back  in  front. 


112 

Mr  D.  Is  there  no  danger,  Doctor  ?  It  is  a  dreadful 
business. 

Doctor.  I  will  warrant  a  cure,  if  you  will  let  me  have 
my  way. 

Mr.  D.  I  will  be  as  submissive  as  a  lamb.  I  shall  be 
willing  to  suffer  any  thing  but  death  to  be  rectified.  Only 
think,  Doctor,  of  always  having  the  cape  of  one's  coat  in 
one's  mouth,  and  one's  queue  in  one's  bosom,  and  of  al- 
ways looking  behind. 

Doctor.  Retrospection  is  often  dreadful ;  but  be  of  good 
cheer,  I  have  no  doubt  I  can  set  all  right ;  but,  first,  you 
must  let  me  blind  your  eyes,  that  you-  may  not  shrink 
from  my  preparations. 

Mr.  D.  Any  thing.  Do  as  you  please,  Doctor.  ( The 
Doctor  blinds  his  eyes.) 

Doctor.  I  think  it  will  be  better  to  remove  your  coat 
and  vest  lest  they  should  be  soiled.  {He  takes  them  off.) 
Now,  James,  do  you  take  the  left  ear,  and  when  I  give  the 
word,  pull  hard  to  the  right,  and  you  Thomas,  take  the 
right  ear,  and  pull  strongly  to  the  left.  In  the  mean  time,  I 
will  separate  the  parts,  and  adjustthe  head  to  the  body.  (He 
puts  a  small  cord  around  the  neck,  and  holds  an  end  in  each 
hand.)    I  will  count  three,  and,  at  the  word  three,  let  all 

move  as  one.    Now,  one, two  -^ three  !    (James 

and  Thomas  pull  with  apparent  violence,  and  the  Doctor  puUs 
the  string  so  as  to  lead  the  patient  to  think  he  is  cut  around 
the  neck. ) 

Mr.  D.     O  Doctor,  Doctor,  I  am  a  dead  man  ! 

Doctor.  You  will  be,  if  you  speak  while  your  head  is 
off.  (He  affects  to  fix  it  on,  squeezing  it  on  the  sides  of  the 
iwck,  and  striking  it  hard  on  the  top.)  Steady,  steady. 
James  -give  me  my  ThuringOR-pendente-hypogastri-curente 
fluid,  for  that  will  instantly  stanch  the  blood,  and  restoie 
'•he  skin,  so  that  no  scar  will  be  left.  (He  ivashes  the 
■pxrk.)     There,  there,  see  how  beautifully  it  heals  ! 

James.  I  never  saw  the  like  Who  would  have  thought 
It? 

Thomas.     Mercy  on  me,  what  a  change  I 

Doctor.  Beautiful  operation.  I  shall  beg  permission 
to  report  it  in  the  Medical  Journal.  James,  run  for  a  glass 
that  your  master  may  see  himself,  and,  Thomas,  put  on  his 


113 

garments  again.  [Thomas  puts  them  on  as  they  Jiould  be, 
and  Jame$  arrives  lailh  the  glass  and  holds  it  up  before  his 
'master. ) 

Doctor.  There  Mr.  Doloroso,  you  may  see  with  your 
own  eyes,  that  all  is  right. 

Mr.  D.     Not  uuless  you  un(3over  them,  Doctor. 

Doctor.  True,  true.  Uncover  them  slowly,  Thomas, 
lest  the  light  should  strike  them  too  suddenly  in  their  en- 
feebled state.  {Thomas  takes  off  the  bandage.,  and  Janics 
holds  up  the  glass. 

Mr.  D  Well,  upon  my  word,  this  is  wonderful.  {He 
feels  of  the  back  of  his  head  and  cape  of  his  coat  ;  unbuttons 
and  buttons  his  coat  and  vest.)  Wonderful,  wonderful! 
Doctor,  I  am  under  everlastins;  obligations  to  you.  James 
and  Thomas  I  shall  never  forget  you.  Do  you  think  I 
may  now  eat  with  safety,  Doctor  ? 

Doctor,  Certainly,  but  you  must  be  careful  not  to  eat 
weather-cocks,  for  they  turn  the  head,  and  I  should  re- 
commend total  abstinence  from  all  spirits,  for  they  twist 
the  intellect  and  put  windmills  into  the  brain. 

Mr.  D.  O,  I'll  never  drink  another  drop  of  any  thing 
but  water,  Doctor.     I  swear  I  never  will. 

Doctor.  I'll  answer  for  your  head  tlien  with  my  own. 
Come,  I  will  go  and  dine  with  you  to  see  how  eating  af- 
fects you. 

Mr.  D.  Do,  Doctor,  do,  for  I  wish  to  be  sure  that  all  is 
right,  before  you  leave  me.     Come,  come  in. 


LIT.     THE  WELL  OF  ST.   KEYNE. 

PRIEST    AND    STRANGER. 

P.     Thrice  welcome,  stranger,  to  the  mystic  well ! 

»S.     Thanks  for  thy  welcome,  worthy  priest.  There  goes 
A  tale,  that  when  a  pair,  in  happy  wedlock  joined, 
Begin  the  race  of  marriage  life,  which  ever 
First  shall  quafl*  tlie  sacred  stream,  shall  lead 


114 

The  othei,  and  precedence  gain,  and  power, 
And  such  control  as  may  not  be  o'ercome. 

P.     The  legend  runneth  thus,  and  the  good  saint 
Who  blessed  the  well,  hath  thus  endowed  the  watei 
And  each  day  bears  witness  to  the  legend's  truth ; 
For  hither  corae  the  happy  mates,  who  just 
Have  sworn  to  serve  each  other,  and  obey, 
That, on  the  virtue  of  the  mystic  wave, 
And  through  the  merit  of  our  patron  saint, 
"Jliey  may  anrml  the  vow  so  late  imposed. 

S.     'Tis  well ;  I  would  a  draft  of  this  same  well 
Secure  ;  for,  though  in  love,  and  meet  discretion 
I  would  live,  I  much  do  fear  there  is  in  her 
Whom  I  have  wed,  a  fiery  will,  that  may 
If  unrestrained,  usurp  dominion,  and 
Me  hold  in  base  subjection. 

P.     Haste  then  to  taste  the  crystal  fount,  and  know 
That,  in  proportion  to  the  water  drank. 
Will  be  the  ascendency,  if  every  glass 
Be  sanctified  by  such  a  gift  as  noble  hearts, 
On  such  intentions  bent,  do  freely  yield. 

S.     I  understand  the  terms,  then  haste  thee  quick, 
Lest  the  other  party  come,  and  ])y  her  arts 
Anticipate  the  cup  that  now  is  sure. 

P.     Drink  then,  and  may  St.  Keyne  thy  purpose  bless. 

{He  gives  a  glass  of  water,  and  the  stranger,  gicing  tho- 
ney,  dn?iks  hastily,  calls  for  anothet  glass,  another,  and  ano- 
ther, paying  liberally  for  en.ch  glass.  After  the  fourth  glass, 
the  priest  says  — ) 

Methinks  thou  hast  acquired  an  adequate 
Control,  and  need'st  not  fear  the  uncurbed  will 
Of  any  woman  sprung  from  mother  Eve. 
But,  stranger,  now  all  fear  is  banished,  I 
Would  fain  inquire  the  general  bearing,  and 
The  form  of  her,  whose  faithful  service  thou. 
And  due  submission,  by  this  timely  draft 
Of  the  mysterious  flood  hast  well  secured. 

S.     l£er  form  is  that  of  angels,  and  her  air 
Angelic  too.     Her  eye  bespeaks  command  ; 
The  robe  of  azure  blue  she  always  wears, 
Beseems  of  hea\en. 


115 

P      Of  azure  b'  ue,  of  such  and  such  a  cast? 

S.     E'en  such.     You  know  my  charmer  then  ? 

P      At  early  morn,  before  the  sun  had  gilt 
The  highest  hills,  a  lady  such  as  she 
Did  hither  come,  and  full  confession  make 
Of^her  intent  to  wed  ;  and,  lest  her  lord, 
After  the  solemn  ceremony,  should 
Outrun  her  nimblest  speed,  she  bade  me  fill 
A  vessel  of  capacious  size,  and  this 
To  churcli  she  took,  that,  when  the  nuptial  knot 
Was  tairly  tied,  without  a  moment's  loss, 
She  might  the  water  drink,  and  thus  secure 
The  power  that  thou  less  shrewd,  I  fear,  hast  missed. 

S.     And  all  my  speed  is  vain  I    Plague  on  the  water, 
Priest ! 
Bottled,  and  borne  to  cliurch  I 

P.     And  drained  to  the  last  drop  ere  thou  didst  taste. 

iS.     'Tw^as  fairly  done.     But,  worthy  monk,  do  not 
My  secret  tell,  and  I  will  give  thee  thrice 
The  fee  thy  hands  now  grasp,  for  deeper  shame 
I  deem  it  to  be  thus  by  saints  befooled, 
Than  by  a  witty  woman  to  be  ruled. 


LIII.     ALEXANDER  AND  THE  SCYTHIAN. 

Alex.     Whence  are  you  ? 

Scyth.     From  Scythia. 

Al.     Whom  seek  you  ? 

Scy,     Alexander,  whom  men  style  the  Great. 

Al.     I  am  he. 

Sc2/.     No.     He  must  be  a  man. 

Al.     Ah  !     What  call  you  a  man  ? 

Scy.  The  king  I  serve  in  height,  and  size,  and  strcniith 
exceeds  all  others.  Your  arms  are  short  and  cannot  grasp 
what  Alexander  covets. 

Al.  I  am  Alexander,  nevertheless.  What  would  you 
with  me? 


116 


HUNDRKD    DIALOGUES. 


Scy.  Rumor  says  you  march  to  Scythia.  My  orraini 
is  to  warn  you  of  the  danger. 

Al.     Danger  would  be  a  motive  to  go  on. 

Scy      We   have  nothing  there  to  tempt  your  avarice. 

Al.  You  are  not  subject  yet  to  Alexander,  and  the 
world  must  all  be  his. 

Smj.  We  live  in  tents,  and  have  no  houses  for  you  to 
burn  and  plunder. 

Al.     Alexander  will  teach  you  how  to  build  some. 

Scy.  We  have  no  wealth  but  flocks,  whose  skins  do 
clothe,  whose  flesh  doth  feed  our  wives  and  children. 

Al.  We  will  teach  you  to  weave  your  garments,  and 
to  cultivate  the  ground. 

Scy.  We  ask  for  no  such  knowledge.  We  are  satis- 
fied with  what  the  Gods  have  given  us. 

Al.     We  will  teach  you  wliat  is  law. 

Scy.  We  want  none.  Equity  and  justice  we  inherit 
by  nature,  and  we  need  no  laws  to  enforce  them.  You 
covet  our  land.     We  neither  covet  nor  plunder. 

Al.     Have  you  gold  or  silver? 

Scy.  We  have  milk  and  honey  instead.  Our  land  is 
undivided.  What  all  own  no  one  covets.  You  covet  the 
wliule  world,  and  would  follow  the  sun  and  know  wiiere 
he  hides  at  night. 

Al.     We  bring  you  arts. 

Scy,  The  gods  have  giv^n  us  a  sheep,  a  javelin,  and 
a  cup.  The  sheep  supplies  our  wants,  the  javelin  repels 
our  enemies,  the  cup  rejoices  our  friends.  We  ask  nothing 
of  Alexander. 

Al.  We  will  teach  you  the  sublime  philosophy  of 
Greece. 

Scy.  We  reverence  the  gods,  and  are  just  to  men,  and 
live  contentedly  without  philosophy. 

Al.     It  will  teach  you  what  is  virtue. 

Scy.     We  are  virtuous  through  ignorance  of  vice. 

Ah  Alexander  has  conquered  all  but  Scythia,  and  wny 
not  Scythia  too  ? 

Scy.  It  were  a  greater  conquest  to  spare  Scythia.  Who 
can  not  rule  his  avarice  must  be  unfit  to  rule  a  world, 

Al.     On  what  terms  tlien,  shall  we  trciat  ? 

Scy.     On  equal  terms  or  none. 


11. 

Al.  We  are  not  equal.  I  have  a  world,  and  you  a 
wilderness. 

Scy.  They  are  equals,  who  ne'er  have  tried  thei. 
strength  against  each  other.     What  shall  I  tell  my  master  ? 

Al.  That  Alexander  will  receive  him  as  a  friend,  and 
and  treat  him  as  a  king. 

Scy.  He  will  prove  worthy  of  your  friendship.  (iJg 
goes  out.) 

Al.  {Alone.)  And  it  has  come  to  this !  A  king  of 
wandering  shepherds  claims  equality  with  Alexander, 
and  establishes  his  claim  !  I  have  waded  years  in  blood 
to  learn  that  poverty  with  sweet  content  is  better  far 
than  the  possession  of  a  conquered  world  ;  and  the  phi- 
losophy of  Greece  is  foolishness  compared  with  the  sim- 
phcity  of  nature.  I  must  see  this  Scythian  king,  and 
prove  to  him  that  greatness  doth  not  rest  in  size,  nor 
strength  in  armies. 


Liy.    LET  YOUR  YEA  BE  YEA. 

CHAPv-LOTTE    AND    HITTY. 

Charlotte.  Do  tell  me,  Hitty,  when  you  expect  to  finish 
that  endless  history.  You  have  been  a  whole  year  upon 
it. 

Hitty.  I  shall  be  many  more  years  ujwn  it,  if,  as  you 
say,  it  is  endless. 

C.  If  it  is  not  endless,  it  must  be  infinitely  dull.  1 
would  not  read  it  for  the  world, 

II.  I  would  read  it  for  half  the  world,  and  then  learn 
it  by  heart. 

C.  I  prefer  to  read  novels  ;  there  is  something  magnifi- 
cent in  a  good  novel. 

H.  In  what  does  the  magnificence  consist?  I  find 
more  of  them  ridiculous  than  magnificent. 

C.  I  devoured  a  horrid  good  one  yesterday,  and  I  will 
lei.  d  it, to  you,  if  you  will  promise  to  read  it  «oon. 


118 

H.  I  cannot  spare  the  time  just  now,  and  besides,  I 
am  not  fond  of  horrid  things. 

C.  Wliy,  you  simple  one,  I  do  not  mean  that  there  is 
any  thing  actually  horrid  in  it,  but  only  that  it  is  exquisitely 
delightful.     Do  you  understand  me  now? 

//.  I  fear  not ;  such  books  sometimes  amuse  me,  but 
they  never  afford  me  such  exquisite  delight  as  you  say 
tliey  do  you. 

C.  O  dear !  I  think  there  is  something  divine  in  a 
first  rate  novel,  and  I  adore  to  read  one,  it  makes  your 
dry  histories  appear  so  supremely  irksome. 

H.  I  should  prefer  then  not  to  read  such  books ;  for, 
-when  fiction  renders  truth  distasteful,  it  is  better  to  let  it 
alone. 

C  My  little  philosopher,  you  will  never  live  to  grow 
up  ;  you  are  too  mighty  fine  to  survive  your  teens.  For 
my  part,  I  worship  enthusiasm,  and  prefer  soaring  with 
the  sky  lark,  to  creeping  with  the  mud  turtle,  though,  I 
suppose,  you  think  the  tortoise  transcendently  superior  to 
the  lark. 

//.  I  never  thought  of  comparing  those  animals,  but  I 
think  each  is  interesting  in  its  place. 

C.  O  yes,  the  tortoise  is  a  splendid  animal,  and  so 
grave  that  he  would  make  a  brilliant  historian. 

H  I  never  examined  him  in  history,  but  I  think  if  he 
reads  any  thing,  it  must  be  novel.  But,  Lotty,  you  must 
agree  with  me  that  his  gait  is  exquisitely  t!raceful,  and 
his  air  infinitely  majestic. 

a    What : 

H.  Do  you  not  think  his  coat  of  mail  magnificent,  and 
his  vivacity  horrid  interesting  ?  Don't  you  adore  his  di- 
vine caudal  extremity  ? 

C.     What  do  you  mean.  Hit?     Are  you  crazy? 

//.  Is  there  not  something  exquisitely  delightful  in  his 
physiognomy?  and  is  not  his  very  flatness  supremely 
amusing  ? 

G.  Mehitable,  what  do  you  mean  ?  There,  I  will  call 
you  by  your  transcendently  abominable  name,  you  are  so 
perverse. 

H.  How  am  I  perverse  ?  Do  you  not  think  with  me 
that  there  is  something  magnificently  grand  in  whiskers  ? 


FOWLirS    HUNDRED    DIALOGUES.  119 

something  inimitably  musical  in  an  oath?  (Charlotte 
tries  to iiut  her  hand  over  Hitt't/s  mouth,  ivhile  Hitty  sai/s,) 
is  there  not  something  indescribably  grand,  something 
perfectly  splendiferously  superb  in  a  pipe  ?  something 

C.     Hold  your  tongue,  Hit,  or  I'll  never  forgive  you. 

H.  Excuse  me,  my  dear  Charlotte,  I  only  wished  to 
make  you  sensible  of  a  habit,  not  peculiar  to  you,  to  be 
sure,  but  one  into  which  you  have  inconsiderately  fallen, 
that  of  using  extravagant  language  to  express  very  com- 
rnon  ideas.  If  my  rhapsodies  have  induced  you  to  notice 
the  fault,  I  shall,  be  very  glad,  or,  as  you  would  say,  infi- 
nitely delighted. 

C.  Miss  Mehitable  Dunstan,  you  are  a  plague,  but  I 
know  you  love  me,  and  I  shall  be  eternally 

II.  No,  Miss  Charlotte  Perkins  Mandeville,  not  quite 
eternally ■ 

G.  Well  then,  I  shall  be  very  much  obliged  to  you,  if 
you  will  watch  me  closely  until  I  have  corrected  a  habit, 
which,  I  have  often  heard,  is  rendering  our  countrywomen 
quite  ridiculous.  Henceforth  I  will  try  to  avoid  superla- 
tives, and  believe  with  the  poet,  that, 

"  A  simple  thought  is  best  expressed 
In  modest  phrase  ;  for,  jackdaws  dressed 
In  peacock's  plumes,  appear  to  us 
Less  splendid  than  ridiculous." 


LV.    THE  WALKING  DICTIONARY. 

JOHNSON,  WITH  A  LARGE  DICTIONARY.     WAGNER  AND  PETER,  HIS 
SCHOOLMATES. 

Johnson.     Approximate  no  farther,  caitiffs,  you  have  in- 
f,errupted  my  ratiocination. 

Wagner.  O,  rash-y-osh-y-nosh-y-un.  Well,  Doctor,  what 
is  your  rash-y-osh-y-nosh-y-tun? 

John.  Of  course  you  do  not  comprehend  any  refine* 
raent  of  phraseology.  Ratiocination  is  profound,  Intel 
lectual  rumination. 


120 

Wag.  O,  is  it  I  I  should  not  think  such  a  httle  body 
as  yours  could  hold  so  many  big  words.  They  are  as  long 
iis  tapeworms.  I  should  like  to  know  how  you  find  room 
for  any  tiling  you  eat. 

Peter.  I  wonder  how  he  makes  himself  understood 
when  he  asks  for  any  thing.  Tell  me,  Doctoi;,  how  would 
you  ask  your  mother  for  a  piece  of  bread  ? 

John.  I  should  implore  my  maternal  predecessor  to  be- 
stow on  me  a  portion  of  that  nutriment  for  which  it  is  en- 
joined on  us  to  make  diurnal  supplication. 

Wag  O  dear  I  well  what  would  you  do  then  ;  hand 
your  maternal  predecessor  a  dictionary  ? 

P  A  lexicographical  vocabulary,  you  should  say ;  I 
should  think  the  Doctor's  mamma  would  need  one. 

John.  I  can  not  perceive  what  course  of  ratiocination 
leads  you  to  treat  thus  contemptuously  my  endeavors  to 
express  the  lucubrations  of  my  encephalon  in  the  most 
magniloquent  terms. 

IVag.  Do  say  that  again,  Doctor,  for  really  it  is  too 
great  to  be  swallowed  at  once. 

P.  Doctor,  .what  do  you  mean  by  your  encephalon,  if 
that  is  the  word  ? 

Joh?i.  Something  that  does  not  appertain  to  the  simple. 
You  would  not  know  if  I  should  elucidate  my  asseveration, 
for  a  rap  on  your  cranium  would  only  produce  reverbera- 
tions. 

P.  Doctor,  how  would  your  encephalom  direct  you  to 
say  " How  do  you  do,"  to  a  friend? 

John.  Get  out  I  —  I  mean  —  retire  to  some  extraneous  lo- 
cality. I  will  not  submit  to  indignity  though  the  final 
cataplasm  should  supervene. 

Wag.     The  final  cata  — ^  what  ? 

John.  It  is  enough  for  me  to  furnish  the  language,  I  can- 
not translate  it  for  you  numsculls. 

Wag.  Lend  me  your  dictionary,  then.  You  called 
the  end  of  all  things  the  final  cata —  something,  what 
was  it  ? 

John.     Cataplasm,  you  verdant. 

Wag.  ( Turning  over  the  dicticnary. )  C-a-t,  cat,  a,  cat-a- 
p-1-a-s-m,  plasm  —  cataplasm  —  a  poultice  —  ha  !  ha !  ha ! 

P.     1  have  heard  of  various  ways  in  which  the  world 


121 

is  to  be  destroyed,  but  this,  by  a  great  poultice,  is  Lew  to 
me. 

John.  Let  me  investigate.  (Takes  the  dictionary.) 
Surely,  the  lexicographer  must  have  deviated  from  recti- 
tude. 

Wag.  O  yes,  the  dictionary  is  wrong,  no  doubt,  and 
not  our  eruditissimus  great  little  Doctor !  I  think  I  once 
heard  the  flood  called  a  Cataclysm  ;  is  not  that  your  word, 
Doctor  ? 

John.     It  is.     I  slipped  inadvertently. 

P.  You  will  often  do  so,  if  you  carry  your  head  in  the 
clouds.  Now,  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  in  plain  English, 
what  is  the  use  of  your  using  such  high-flown  words  in 
ordinary  conversation  ? 

John.  How  will  the  ignorant  know  that  I  am  a  student, 
if  T  speak  as  they  do  ? 

P.  My  opinion  is,  that,  where  one  ignorant  person 
would  set  you  up  for  a  student,  twenty  ignoramuses  would 
set  you  down  for  a  fool.  Come,  give  up  your  nonsense, 
or  T  will  put  a  great  "  cataplasm  "  on  your  "  encephalon  " 
to  restore  you  to  your  "ratiocination." 

John.     I  suppose  I  may  as  well  succumb. 

Wag.  Suck  —  what?  You  had  better  leave  off  suck- 
ing, and  become  a  man.  Take  my  advice,  and  do  n't  look 
in  your  dictionary  again  this  twelvemonth.  Good  English 
is  as  far  removed  from  high-flown  as  from  vulgar  words, 
as  the  best  manners  are  equally  removed  from  affectation 
and  rudeness. 

P.  Come,  Doctor,  give  up  the  cataplasm  style,  and 
adopt  the  natural. 

John.  Well,  cataplasm  shall  be  flood,  encephalon  shall 
be  brain,  and  succumb  shall  be  submit,  from  this  time 
forth,  forever.  Come,  boys,  let  us  go  and  have  some  fun, 
as  we  used  to  do,  and  let  him  who  speaks  a  word  of  more 
than  one  syllable  be  turned  out  of  the  play. 
11 


122  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

LVI.    THE  BRIDAL. 

MARY    AND    HER,    MOTHER. 

Mary.     Dear  Motlior,    while  the  village  bells  thus  ring 
Their  joyous  peals,  and  all  the  world 's  astir 
To  see  tlie  bride,  and  welcome  her  and  him, 
Who  is  to  be  her  own,  to  ail  the  bliss 
That  waits  on  wedded  love,  —  why  is  it  now 
That  you  alone  are  sad,  and  still  look  on 
As  if  the  wedding  were  a  funeral  ? 

Mother.     'T  were  better  far  to  be  enwrapped  at  once 
In  the  white  shroud,  than  to  drag  out  a  life 
Like  that,  which  she  must  live,  who  only  weds 
A  mate,  and  has  no  good  security 
Against  the  ills,  that  press  on  married  life, 
And  sour  the  spirit,  blight  the  happiness, 
That  promised,  on  the  wedding  morn,  to  be 
Eternal. 

yiary      Mother,  why  should  you  suspect 

That  such  a  gloom  will  spread  o'er  Kate's  fair  morOi 
When  all  is  now  so  full  of  sunny  peace  ? 

Mother.     I  once  was  young  as  Kate,  as  joyous  tco, 
And  innocent ;  and  I  too  loved  as  she, 
And  was  beloved  ;  but  love  could  not  avert 
The  ills  that  pressed  in  quick  succession,  till 
Hope  of  relief  was  banished  from  the  soul, 
And  sorrow  produced  sorrow,  till  at  last, 
Despair  triumphant  ruled,  and  love 
Was  agony,  when  it  could  not  relieve 
The  objects  of  its  love. 

Mary.  And  have  you  felt 

The  misery  you  so  fearfully  describe  ? 
I  oft  have  noticed  that,  when  I  was  light 
Of  heart,  and  buoyant  with  delight. 
The  smile  of  sympathy  that  lit  your  brow, 
Was  like  a  rainbow  on  the  weeping  sky, 
The  pledge  of  hope,  bat  the  memorial  too 
Of  storms  just  past,  that  havoc  dire  had  made 
Of  all  earth's  loveliness. 


fowle's  hundrld  dialogues.  123 

MolJur.  In  youth  I  dreamed, 

As  the  young  only  dream,  of  earthly  Edens, 
Where  the  blight  of  sin,  of  sorrow,  and  the  curse 
Of  poverty  ne'er  came  ;  where  all  the  ground 
Was  strowed  with  flowers  and  every  breeze  loaded 
With  health.  I  never  since  have  dreamed  such  dreams. 

Mary.     Poor  Kate,  I  almost  shudder  at  the  thought 
TJiat  so  much  promise  can  be  ever  changed 
To  bitter  disappointment ;  that  the  flowers, 
Which  now  thy  pathway  strow,  and  perfume  shed 
To  enchant  the  sense,  but  cover  flints  that  watch 
To  lacerate  the  tender  foot,  and  make 
The  bed  of  roses  hard  and  comfortless. 

Mother.     Thy  father,  like  the  youth  whom  Kate  adrise, 
Possessed  a  gentle  soul,  and  promise  gave 
Of  excellence.     In  liberal  thought  and  deed, 
In  love  for  me,  and  tender  love  for  all 
The  little  ones,  that  God,  in  seeming  grace, 
Bestowed,  he  equalled  all  that  e'er  1  dreamed 
But  in  our  Eden  soon  a  tempter  came, 
And  we  were  driven  out,  as  with  a  sword, 
More  keen  and  piercing    then  the  flaming  brand, 
That  drove  our  parents  from  primeval  peace. 

Mary.     I  never  lieard  the  tale,  but  only  know 
That  I  had  brothers  once,  and  sisters  too 
Who  often  lacked  the  bread,  and  clothes,  and  fire, 
That  other  children  had.     And  I  remember, 
Every  now  and  then,  a  gloomy  hearse  appeared 
And  bore  away  my  playmates,  little  Sue 
And  Jessie,  Willy,  Charley,  Jane,  and,  last 
Of  all,  my  father  went  away,  and  came 
No  more  ;  and  then  our  home  began  to  look 
More  cheerful,  to  my  childish  eye  at  least. 
Though  darkness  seemed  to  settle  o'er  the  heart 
That  still  was  warm  to  me,  my  mother  dear. 

T'loiher.     O  happy  childhood,  which  can  not  discern 
The  ills  that  'neath  the  surface  lie,  and  knows 
No  storm  beyond  an  April  shower.    'T  is  hard 
To  cast  a  shade  o'er  thy  bright  hopes  of  morn, 
And  yet  'twere  cruel  not  to  speak,  when  those 
We  love  approach  the  pitfall,  and  prepare 


12  \  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

Ill  ignorance  to  make  the  fatal  plunge. 

Many.      Dear  motliei-,  what  can  mean  the  mystery 
Tliat  hangs  o'er  your  discom^se.     If  clanger  lurk 
In  Kate's  bright  path,  but  point  it  out,  and  I 
Will  warn  lier  oW,  or  watch  in  her  defence. 

M  4hpr.      There  is  no  cure  tor  the  evil  1  deplore. 
The  cup  once  tasted,  all  the  ties  of  love, 
All  hope  of  honest  iixme,  all  fear  of  shame, 
Ail  tenderness,  and  decency  are  lost. 
The  tears,  the  broken  hearts,  the  pallid  corse 
Of  loved  ones,  e'en  still  loved  waen  reason  reigns, 
VVaijzh   not  a  leather  when  the  tempter  comes. 
Kate  knows  that  he  she  loves,  and  who  no  doul)t 
Lovea  her,  has  touched  the  cursed  thign,  and  will, 
li  tempted,  trespass  on  ;   tor,  appetite, 
When  unrestiamed  by  |)rinciple,  is  like 
The  mountain  torrent  that  doth  glide  along 
The  level  spots  with  gentlest  current,  but 
Is  sure  to  plunge  adown  each  precijuce, 
And  ruin  bear,  not  verdure,  to  the  vale. 

Mary.     But,  mother,  will  not  he,  when  hers,  be  held. 
In  such  restraint,  that  he  will  ne'er  o'erstep 
The  line  of  rectitude  ? 

Mother.  It  is  an  axiom, 

That  the  man  wlio  dares  to  drain  the  cup 
While  but  expectant,  can  not  trusted  be 
When  in  possession.     And  the  inaid  who  hopes, 
In  wedlock  to  reform  him  who  defied 
Her  power  before,  is  ignorant  or  mad. 

Mary.     But,  mother,  now  the  bells  are  ringing  all, 
It  seems  too  late  for  us  to  interpose. 

Mother,     It  never  is  too  late  to  save  the  sinner. 

Never,  sure,  to  save  the  tempted.     Tell  your  Kate, 
That  every  chime,  that  now  rings  in  her  ears, 
Will  toll  a  dirge  ere  she  has  travelled  far 
In  matrimony,  and  the  pledge  to  love. 
Serve,  honor  and  to  cherish,  until  death 
Dissolve  the  bond,  is  nought,  nought,  nought, 
Without  the  pledge  of  total  abstinence. 
Tell  this  to  Kate  tiora  one  who  knows  too  well 
The  dreadful  truth,  and  warn  her  to  beware. 


lJi5 


LVII.     SCHOOL  DISCIPLINE. 

MR.    AND    MRS.    CAUDLE. 

Mrs.  C.  Do  I  understand  you  to  say,  husband,  that 
you  forbade  the  teacher  to  flog  the  scholars  ? 

Mr.  C.  How  can  I  tell  what  you  understand,  my 
dear? 

Mrs.  C.  How  can  you  tell  what  I  understand  I  You 
know  well  enough  what  I  mean,  Mr.  Caudle. 

Mr.  C.  That  would  be  to  know  more  than  you  know, 
which  you  never  have  been  willing  to  allow. 

Mrs.  G.  Caudle,  you  know  that  you  told  the  teacher 
not  to  flog  the  children  any  more. 

Mr.  C.  Well,  supposing,  for  the  sake  of  harmony,  that 
1  do  know  it,  what  then  ? 

Mrs.  C.  What  then  I  why,  you  ought  to  be  whipped 
yourself. 

Mr.  G.     I  am  going  to  be  whipped,  it  seems. 

Mrs.  G.  Going  to  be  whipped  I  with  what,  pray  ?  it 
ought  to  be  with  a  cat-o' nine- tails. 

Mr.  G.     It  is  one,  in  the  shape  of  a  lady's  tongue. 

Mrs.  G.  Jn  the  shape  of  a  lady's  tongue  I  Do  you 
mean  to  call  my  tongue  a  lady's  tongue.  Caudle  ?  Jus; 
let  me  hear  you  say  that  again,  if  you  dare. 

Mr.  G  1  beg  pardon  ;  either  you  mistook  my  remark 
Of  1  did  yours. 

Mrs.  G.  No  mistake  about  it,  Caudle.  Look  me  in 
the  face,  if  you  dare  to  face  the  truth. 

Mr,  G.     Is  your  face  a  mirror  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Is  my  face  a  mirror  I  What  do  you  mean? 
that  you  face  the  truth  when  you  see  yourself  in  the 
glass.  Caudle,  you  dare  not  look  me  in  the  face.  You 
know  you  dare  not. 

Mr.  G.     Well,  taking  that  for  granted,  what  then  ? 

Mrs.  G  You  know  you  told  the  teacher  not  to  lick  the 
scholars. 

Mr.  G.  She  never  licks  them,  though  she  sometimes 
washes  them. 


l26  fowle's  hhndrfd  dialogues. 

Mrs  C.  You  know  what  I  mean,  only  you  catch  ai 
words. 

Mr.  C.  I  suppose  to  hck,  means  to  flog  with  the  tongue, 
as  females,  who  deny  that  they  are  ladies,  flog  their  hus 
bands. 

Mrs,  C.  Caudle,  how  you  twist  every  thing  I  say  ! 
Now,  answer  me  point-blank,  did  you  or  did  you  not  for- 
bid the  teacher  to  flog  the  scholars  any  more  ? 

Mr.  a     Yes. 

Mrs.  C.  What  do  you  mean  by  yes?  Yes  you  did  or 
yes  you  did  n't. 

Mr.  C.     I  answered  point-blank,  as  you  directed. 

Mrs.  C.  Caudle,  you  are  enough  to  provoke  a  saint. 
Did  you  not  forbid  her  to  strike  a  child  ? 

Mr.  a     Yes. 

Mrs.  C.     Yes  I  what  do  you  mean  by  yes  ? 

Mr.  C.  I  meant  an  affirmative  answer  to  your  nega- 
tive question. 

Mrs.  C.  Caudle,  do  you  understand  English  ?  Answer 
me  that ! 

Mr.  C.     Sometimes. 

Mrs.  C.  Sometimes  !  what  do  you  mean  by  some- 
times ? 

Mr.  C.      You  seem  not  to  understand  English. 

Mrs.  C.  You  know  what  1  mean,  you  provoking  crea- 
ture, you  know  I  mean  to  ask  whether  you  luiderstand 
me. 

3Ir.  G.     I  think  I  do  thorouo^hly.     (Smiling.) 

Mrs.  O.  Caudle,  I  shouk^  like  to  beat  you  within  an 
inch  of  your  life.  Forbid  the  teacher  to  strike  the  child- 
ren !  I  guess  you  had  better  do  so. 

Mr.  C.  I  am  glad  you  approve  of  my  course  The 
Committee  also  thought  1  had  better  do  so. 

Mrs.  C  How  you  pervert  every  thing  I  say  I  Wliy 
did  n't  you  consult  me  before  you  gave  your  orders  ? 

Mr.  C.  I  did  not  know  you  were  on  the  School  Com- 
mittee. 

Mrs.  C.  On  the  Committee,  no,  it 's  well  I  am  not.  I 
would  have  proved  that  you  are  all  madmen  or  fools. 
Not  whip  the  children  I     A  pretty  pass  we  are  coming  to. 


DIALOGUES.  127 

Voii  might  as  well  tell  rae  not  to  feed  them.  Have  n't 
children  been  whipped  six  thousand  years? 

Mr.  C.  Yes,  and  we  concluded  that,  as  children  grow 
worse  and  worse,  it  is  time  to  try  some  other  method,  and 
when  we  have  tried  the  new  plan  as  long,  if  it  succeeds 
no  better,  we  will  go  back  to  the  old  one. 

Mrs.  C.  Well,  Caudle,  there  is  some  wit  in  you,  after 
all,  but  it  never  comes  out  till  I  have  given  you  a  basting. 
I  should  like  to  see  the  man  or  woman  that  would  strike 
one  of  7iiy  children.  , 


LVIII.     THE  TWO  QUACKS. 

MR.  SLENDER,  AND  MR.  BOLDEN,  HIS  BROTHER  IN  LAW;  DR. 
BOLUS,  AND  DR.  RHUBARB. 

Mr.  S.  Do  not  say  another  word,  brother.  You  may 
depend  upon  it  that  it  is  all  over  with  me,  and  I  beg  you 
not  to  persist  in  your  opinion.  I  have  sent  for  tne  doc- 
tors, and  shall  do  as  they  may  order. 

Mr,  B.  Very  well,  but  why  send  for  two  physicians, 
when  one  is  enough  to  send  you  to  the  other  world. 

Mr.  S.  I  thought  it  would  be  safer  to  have  two,  and 
then  nothing  will  be  done  rashly. 

Mr.  B.     But  if  they  disagree,  what  then  ? 

Mr.  S.  I  must  call  in  a  third,  or  use  my  own  judg- 
ment, and  mediate  between  them.  But  they  will  come 
separately. 

Mr.  B.  Very  well.  There  will  be  fine  work.  Here 
they  come  together.  [Eater  Dr.  Bolus  and  Dr.  Rhu- 
barb.) 

Dr.  B.  Good  morning,  Mr.  S.,  how  do  you  find  your- 
self? 

Mr.  S.  Almost  gone.  Doctor.  I  do  not  know  that  you 
gentlemen  can  help  me,  but  1  thought  it  my  duty  to  send 
for  you  both. 

Dr.  B.     Both  I     Is  this  gentleman  a  physician  ? 


1^  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

Dr.  R.  I  have  that  honor,  sir,  but  did  not  know  thi 
was  to  be  a  consultation. 

Dr.  B.  Nor  I.  Let  us  proceed,  then,  in  our  examina- 
tion, and  confer  together  afterwards.  Will  the  patient 
be  good  enougli  to  show  his  tongue? 

Dr.  B.     Bilious,  uh  ! 

Dr.  R.  About  as  biUous  as  my  cano.  Let  me  feel 
your  pulse.     Feverish  —  hem  I  hem  I 

Dr.  B.  About  as  feverish  as  my  whip  handle,  uh ! 
Do  you  feel  any  pain  any  where  ? 

Mr.  S.     No  pain,  but  a  dreadful  weakness  all  over. 

Dr.  R.     Lungs,  lungs,  I  suspected  as  much,  hem  I 

Dr.  B.  Liver,  undoubtedly.  Uh  I  Please  to  take  a 
long  inspiration.      {The  patient  does  so.)     Any  pain,  Sir? 

Mr,  S,     No,  Sir,  never  had  any  pain  in  the  lungs. 

Dr  B.     No,  I  thought  not  ;  there,  Dr.  Rhubarb ! 

Dr.  R.  (Punching  the  patient  on  ilie  right  side. 
Any  pain  there,  Sir.^ 

Mr.  S.     None,  but  what  you  cause,  Doctor. 

Dr.  R.  (Punching  him  in  the  chest  and  putti?ig  his  ear 
to  his  heart.)  About  as  much  pneumonia  as  there  is  in 
my  boot.     Hem ! 

Dr.  B.     About  as  much  bile  as  there  is  in  my  hat.    Uh  ! 

Dr.  R.     Go  on.  Sir. 

Dr.  B.  Go  on,  yourself,  Sir.  You  know  as  much 
about  the  prognostics  and  diagnostics  of  this  case  as  my 
horse  does. 

Dr.  R.     The  horse  knows  more  than  his  master. 

Mr.  S.  Gentlemen,  I  did  not  send  for  you  to  witness 
a  quarrel.  You  see  a  dying  man  before  you,  don't  let  him 
suffer  from  your  discordant  feelings. 

Dr.  B.     You  did  wrong.  Sir,  to  send  for  that  fellow. 

Dr.  R      You  did  wrong,  Sir,  to  send  for  that  fellow. 

Dr.  B.     Which  shall  prescribe  for  you.  Sir? 

Mr.  S.  Both  of  you,  gentlemen,  I  will  take  any  thing 
you  order.     Do  n't  quarrel,  gentlemen. 

Dr.  R.  I  shall  order  you  Sal.  Pynch.  Cal.  half  a 
drachm,  twice  a  day. 

Dr.  B.  It  will  kill  you,  Sir,  in  twenty-four  hours. 
You  must  take  Ac.  Kegis.  Con.  Spic.  ^wo  drachms  every 
hour. 


129 

Dr.  11.     It  will  kill  you  in  half  an  hoar. 

{Each  Doctor  takes  out  a  phial  and  'pours  his  'medt>ci7ie 
into  a  large  spoon. ) 

Dr.  B.     Take  this,  Sir. 

Dr.  R.     There 's  death  in  it.     Take  this,  Sir. 

Mr.  S.  Which  shall  I  take,  gentlemen  ?  I  wish  to 
obey  you  Loth. 

Dr.  B  Take  this,  Sir,  or  I  will  not  anSAVer  for  your 
life  another  hour. 

Dr.  R.  Take  this.  Sir,  or  you  are  a  dead  man  in  five 
minutes. 

Mr.  S.  Suppose  I  take  both,  gentlemen,  will  not  one 
prevent  the  other  from  harming  me? 

Bro.     You  may  as  well  take  neither 

Dr.  B.  That  fellow,  (pointi?ig  to  Dr.  R.)  knows 
nothing  of  your  case,  Sir. 

Dr.  R.  Take  that.  Sir,  (throKring  his  9nedici?ie  in  his 
face,)  since  the  patient  will  not. 

Dr.  B.  Take  that !  (throwing  his  mixture  in  Dr.  R's 
face.) 

Mr.  S.  Gentlemen,  what  will  be  the  consequence  of 
thus  wasting  the  medicine  at  this  crisis  ? 

Bro.  Your  life  will  be  saved,  if  there  is  any  truth  in 
the  Doctors. 

Dr.  R.     Who  are  you,  Sir  ? 

Dr.  B.     Yes,  Sir,  who  are  you  ? 

Bro.  One  who  neither  loves  your  physic,  nor  fears 
your  anger. 

Dr.  R.  How  dare  you  step,  Sir,  between  the  patient 
and  his  medical  advisers  ? 

Dr.  B.  Yes,  Sir,  how  dare  you  interfere,  in  a  case  of 
such  moment,  Sir  ? 

Mr.  S.  Brother,  how  can  you  interrupt  the  gentlemen, 
when  I  have  but  a  moment,  perhaps,  to  live  ? 

Bro.  (To  Dr  R.)  What  is  the  matter  with  the  pa- 
tient, Sir  ? 

Dr.  R.  It  is  a  strong  case  of  peri-cogno-mena-ignotha, 
Sir. 

Dr,  B.  A  strong  case  of  ninguna  cosa,  Sir.  Sir,  the 
man  is  as  well  as  I  am. 

Dr.  R,     And  much  more  honest. 


^ 


130 

Dr.  B.  You  have  taken  my  liquid,  now,  Sir,  you  may 
take  the  soUd.  {He  strikes  Dr.  R,,  who  chases  him  out  of 
the  room  ) 

Bro.  Now,  brother,  if  you  will  let  me  prescribe  for 
you,  I  will  insure  your  speedy  recovery. 

Mr.  S.  Well,  brother,  what  shall  I  take  ?  I  will  obe> 
you. 

Bro.  Take  of  Sensus  Communis,  half  a  grain,  of  For- 
titudinis  Vulgaris,  quantum  suf.  and  you  may  laugh  at 
the  doctors. 

Mr.  S.  If  you  will  mix  it,  brother,  1  will  take  it  in- 
stantly. O  dear,  how  much  precious  time  we  have  lost 
by  this  quarrel ! 


LIX.    THE  MAERYING  MISER. 

Skinflint,  the  miser. 
Trimmer,  his  neighbor. 
James,  his  cook  and  coachman. 

-p,  '  I  servants  to  Skinflint. 

Skinflint.  You  say  your  daughter  will  marry  me  with 
out  compulsion. 

Trimmer.  To  be  sure  she  will ;  she  dares  not  do  other 
wise. 

Skin.  I  am  overjoyed,  but  what  dowry  does  she  insist 
on. 

Trim.     Twenty  thousand. 

Skin.     Too  much,  too  much,  when  she  brings  nothing. 

Trim.  You  do  her  injustice,  she  brings  more  than  you 
give  her. 

Skin.  How  so  ?  I  did  not  know  that  she  brought  me 
anything. 

Trim.  She  is  but  twenty,  and  you  are  sixty  at  least, 
and  she  gives  you  forty  years,  which  you  may  set  down 
al  five  hundred  a  year  or  twenty  thousand. 

Sldn.     Eh,  eh  I     Is  that  all  she  brings  : 


131 

Trim.  She  is  priideiit  and  frugal,  and  will  save  you 
at  least  five  hundred  a  year,  that  any  other  wife  would 
spend. 

Skin      Eh,  eh  ! 

TririL.  She  hates  gaming  and  pleasure,  and  will  not 
lose  you  five  hundred  a  year,  as  most  fashionable  wives 
do,  at  the  gaming  table  or  the  theatre. 

Skin.     Eh,  eh !  go  on,  go  on,  Mr.  Trimmer. 

Trim.  She  has  no  poor  relations,  and  you  will  save 
five  hundred  more  by  not  having  to  entertain  them. 

Skin.     Eh,  eh !  but  there  is  no  real  estate  in  all  this. 

Trim.     Is  not  marriage  an  estate  ? 

Skin.     Yes,  marriage  must  be  called  an  estate.    Well? 

2Vim.  Well,  is  there  nothing  real  in  having  a  young 
wife  who  sacrifices  forty  years  ?  nothing  rtal  in  economy 
and  frugality  ?  nothing  real  in  abs taming  from  expensive 
pleasures  and  from  ruinous  play  ?  nothing  real  in  saving 
you  from  the  incumbrance  of  nobody  knows  how  many 
poor  relations  ? 

Skin,  Tliis  is  all  negative  property,  or  at  best,  promis- 
sory notes  never  payable.  But  you  are  sure  the  girl  will 
have  me  ? 

7Vim.  Certainly,  and  as  she  is  to  dine  with  you,  I 
will  go  and  see  that  she  is  ready.     {Trimmer  goes  out.) 

Skin.  Brindle,  come  here!  You  must  dust  all  the 
furniture,  but  don't  rub  it  for  fear  of  wearing  it  out.  At 
dinner  you  must  be  butler,  but,  if  a  bottle  is  missing  or 
broken,  I  shall  take  it  out  of  your  wages. 

Brin.  Very  well,  sir.  {Aside.)  Sucli  pay  is  better 
than  none. 

Skin.  You,  Finch,  must  hand  round  the  wine,  but 
only  where  it  is  called  for ;  and  don't  provoke  the  guests 
to  drmk  as  some  impertinent  servants  do,  when,  if  it  v/as 
not  ofiered,  they  wouldn't  think  of  drinking  a  drop. 
Sometimes  you  need  n't  hear  them  call,  and  be  sure 
always  to  carry  a  pitcher  of  water  on  the  waiter  with 
the  wine. 

Brin.  My  clothes  are  ragged,  master,  and  have  a 
great  rent  behind. 

Fineh.  And  mine  have  a  great  grease  spot  there  as 
big  as  your  hand. 


132 


FOWLE  S    HUNDRED    DIALOGUES. 


Ski7i.  You  must  both  keep  your  backs  to  the  wall, 
and  always  face  the  company.  There,  be  good  boys,  and 
go  to  work.     [They  go  out.)     James,  come  here  I 

James.  Is  it  James  the  coachman,  or  James  the  cook 
you  call? 

Skin.     Both. 

James.     But  which  of  them  first  '^ 

SJan.     Tiie  cook 

James.  Wait  a  minute  then.  {He  puts  on  a  cook\ 
urpron.)     Now,  sir,  your  orders. 

Skm.     What  can  you  give  us  for  dinner,  James  ? 

James.  That  depends  upon  the  money  you  give  me 
to  purcnase  it. 

8ki?L.  The  deuce  it  does !  It  is  always  so  with  you. 
I  never  mention  dinner  but  you  cry  money  I  money  !  Any 
body  can  provide  a  dinner  with  money,  but  the  great  art 
consists  in  providing  a  good  dinner  without  money. 

James.     How  many  guests  will  there  be  ? 

Skin.  Ten,  but  you  must  only  provide  for  eight. 
When  there's  enough  for  eight  there's  enough  for  ten, 
all  the  cook  books  allow. 

James.  I  understand.  To  be  deeent,  we  shall  need 
three  dishes. 

Skin,     Villain  I  you  will  ruin  me. 

James.  Soup  ;  —  fish  ;  —  beef ;  -  -  ( Skinflint  puts  his 
hand  over  his  mouth. ) 

S/cin.     Traitor,  stop,  you  will  eat.  up  all  my  property. 

James.  Puddings  ;  —  pies  ;  —  {He  puts  his  hand  occr 
James's  mouth  again  as  he  says)  nuts  ;  oranges  ;  grapes  — 

SJan.  Do  you  wish  to  kill  the  company,  —  to  kill 
them  by  repletion  ?  Go  and  read  the  Physiology,  or  ask 
the  doctor  if  any  thing  is  so  prejudicial  to  health  as  sucli 
excess.  "We  must  live  to  eat,  and  not  eat  to  live,"  as 
tlie  great  man  says. 

James,     {aside.)     He  has  only  misplaced  the  wo]ds. 

Skin.  What,  are  you  muttering,  fellow?  Now,  mind 
me,  get  only  such  things  as  are  Jeast  likely,  to  be  eaten  ; 
su'ih  as  soon  cloy ;  such  as  the  guests  will  not  take  the 
trouble  to  eat.  Lei  them  peel  their  own  oranges ;  crack 
Lue  nuts  badly.     Be  most  officieis  with  what  costs  least. 

James.     You  may  rely  upon  me.     Now,  sir,  {whiU>  ke 


133 

speaks  he  talces  off  his  apron  and  puts  on  a  coachman^ &  great 
coat)  what  orders  for  your  coachman  ? 

Skin.  Clean  the  carriage,  and  put  in  the  horses  to 
bring  "my  future"  over. 

James.  One  wheel  of  the  carriage  is  smashed,  sir,  as 
you  know,  and  the  poor  horses  would  be  on  the  litter,  if 
they  had  any.  They  are  better  than  the  Pharisees,  how- 
ever. 

Skin.  What  do  you  mean,  blasphemer,  why  are  they 
better  than  the  Pharisees  ? 

James.     Because  they  fast  more  than  twice  in  the  week. 

Skin.  They  are  eating  up  all  my  substance,  you  vil- 
lain. 

James.  And  losing  their  own.  They  are  only  shadows 
of  horses. 

Skin.     They  have  had  nothing  to  do. 

James.  And  nothing  to  eat.  They  can  do  without 
work  better  than  without  food.  So  far  from  drawing  the 
carriage,  they  can  't  drag  themselves. 

Skhi.  Silence,  impertinent  I  You  are  proving  that 
what  everybody  says  of  you  is  true. 

James.  So  are  you  proving  the  truth  of  what  they  say 
of  you. 

Skin.  What  do  they  dare  to  say  of  me  ?  Tell  me 
frankly.     Speak  out ! 

James.  They  say  you  have  an  almanac  printed  for 
your  own  use,  in  which  you  have  no  holidays  and  many 
fasts  ;  that  you  always  quarrel  with  your  servants  just 
at  Christmas  and  New  Year,  so  that  they  may  expect  no 
presents  ;  that  your  coachman  caught  you  one  night 
stealing  the  grain  that  he  had  placed  in  the  crib  for  youi 
own  horses,  and,  pretending  not  to  know  you,  he  gave 
you  a  sounder  thrashing  than  the  grain  ever  had,  and 
you  said  nothing  about  it ;  in  fine,  everybody  says  that 
you  are  an  old  fool  to  expect  to  marry  such  a  young  wife, 
and  that  you  cannot  see  with  spectacles  what  a  blind 
man  could  see  in  the  dark. 

Skin.  Hold,  slanderer,  or  you  shall  be  hanged  the 
Luoment  tlie  dinner  is  over.  I'll  serve  you  as  they  serve 
inad  dogs. 


134 

James.     It  will  be  a  late  dinner,  if  you  wait  for  me  to 
serve  it.     Farewell,  old  fourpence  half-penny. 


LX.    DAVID   AND   GOLIATH. 

Saul.     David.      Goliath,  {the  latter  armed.) 

Saul.     My  noble  boy,  I  cannot  but  perceive 
In  every  movement,  and  in  every  word, 
That  'tis  not  thou  alone  that  goest  forth 
To  meet  Gath's  champion.     Israel's  God 
Inspirits  thee,  and  therefore  art  thou  strong. 
Thy  foe  advances.     I  would  gladly  strive 
Beside  thee,  with  thee  live  or  die.     Far  more 
I  need  encouragement  than  thou.     Farewell !     {He  goes 
out.) 

Goliath,    (advancing.)    Israel  has  accepted,  and  I  come 
To  meet  her  champion,  but  the  knight 
Has  fled  and  left  this  stripHng  in  his  room. 
Go  call  thy  master,  boy,  and  tell  him  I, 
Goliath,  the  great  champion  of  Gath, 
Await  him.     Speed  thee  quick,  or,  by  the  gods 
Of  great  Philistia,  I  will  toss  thy  corpse 
To  the  vultures,  who  would  hardly  thank 
Me  for  the  meagre  banquet.     Hence,  I  say  ! 

David.  My  master  is  the  living  God,  and  I, 
His  servant,  and  my  country's  chosen  one. 
Do  in  that  country's  name,  and  in  the  name 
Of  great  Jehovah,  meet  thy  bold  defiance. 

Goliath.     Thou  I  and  does  the  king  abet  the  insult, 
And  expect  that  I  shall  spare  in  pity 
What  'twere  little  fame  to  slay.     Begone,  I  say  ! 
Or  I  will  treat  thee  as  the  worm  on  which 
I  tread  to  rid  the  earth  of  vermin.     Go, 
And  bid  thy  mother  keep  her  boys  at  home. 

David.    The  deer  is  larger  than  the  dog,  and  yet 
The  dog  can  worry  him.     The  battle  is  not 
With  the  strong  or  to  the  bulky ;  for,  a  bear 


Once  smote  my  flock ;  a  lion  once,  and  yet 
I  tore  the  victims  from  their  jaws,  and  both 
With  these  hands  slew.     I  do  not  heed  thy  size, 
Which  makes  my  aim  more  sure. 

Goliath.  Thy  words  provoke 

My  wrath,  and  yet  I  know  not  whether  most 
To  laugh  or  to  avenge.     I  hoped  a  foe 
Would  venture  forth,  whom  it  were  not  disgrace 
To  kill ;  but  thou  !  —  I  counsel  thee,  vain  boy, 
To  seek  thy  home,  and  watch  thy  tender  sheep, 
If  any  are  entrusted  to  such  hands. 

David.     The  God  I  serve  works  not  by  instruments 
Like  those  men  use.     A  woman  with  a  nail 
Did  silence  Sisera,  and  put  to  flight 
The  host  of  Canaan ;  and  my  God  to-day 
Will  give  thee  to  my  hands,  and  I  shall  smite 
Thy  head  from  oft'  thee,  and  the  mighty  sword, 
Which  thou  art  girdeth  with,  my  weapon  be. 

Goliath.     By  all  the  gods  I  worship,  this  is  more 
Than  flesh  and  blood  can  bear.     Where,  rash  shepherd, 
Is  thy  armor,  where  thy  sword  ?     'Twere  base  to  strike 
A  boy  unarmed. 

David.         Thou  com'st  to  me  with  sword 
And  spear  and  shield,  but  in  the  awful  name 
Of  Israel's  God  I  come,  and  with  this  stone 
And  the  same  sling  that  simple  shepherds  use, 
The  Lord  whom  thou  defiest  will  now  give 
A  lesson  to  Philistia,  who  hath  dared 
To  lift  herself  against  Jehovah. 

Goliath.  Now 

Will  I  stop  thy  prate,  although  my  sword 
Would  rather  rust  than  soil  itself  to  drink 
Such  feeble  blood.     Curst  for  a  coward  king 
Is  he  who  sent  thee  forth,  and  cursed  tliy  God 
Who  moves  thee  now  to  mock  Gath's  champion  thus.=H= 

( While  he  speaJcs  these  ivo-rds,  David  swings  his  sling, 
Goliath  instardly  strikes  his  hand  upon  his  forehead,  reek 
and  falls. ) 

David.  Great  is  the  God  of  Israel,  and  henceforth, 
Let  all  the  people  bless  his  holy  name  ! 

*  The  dialogue  may  end  here  or  be  finished  as  follows. 


136 


LXI.     DOES  LEARNING  INCREASE   HAI»- 

PINESS  ? 

A   CONFERENCE.     (Five  Characters.) 

A.  To  me  there  appears  to  be  no  room  for  any  diifer- 
euce  of  opinion  upon  this  subject,  for  who  can, doubt  that 
knowledge  gives  increase  of  happiness  as  well  as  power. 

B.  Tiie  case  is  by  no  means  so  one  sided  as  you  sup- 
pose, and  I  am  prepared  to  maintain,  that,  in  most  cases, 
increase  of  knowledge  is  increase  of  pain,  or  that,  as  the 
wise  king  expressed  it,  **  all  knowledge  increaseth  sor- 
row." 

G.  How  can  that  be,  since  knowledge  enables  us  to 
reuiove  pain. 

B.  Much  depends  on  what  you  call  pain,  and  I  be- 
Ueve  that,  oftentimes,  the  happiest  are  those  who  enduro 
tlie  most.  The  martyr  has  embraced  the  stake  with  joy. 
The  knowledge  of  the  physician  may  quiet  the  heart- 
burn, but  it  will  not  cure  the  heart-ache. 

A.  Surely  you  will  not  pretend  that  the  educated  are 
more  afflicted  with  the  heart-ache  than  tlie  ignorant  and 
humble  minded. 

B.  I  surely  do  mean  this.  The  ills  of  life  are  multi- 
phed  by  the  refinements  of  education.  The  sensitive- 
ness to  emotions  that  give  pain,  increase  with  this  refine- 
ment. 

A.  May  we  not  grant  this,  and  still  maintain  that 
education  fits  the  mind  to  bear  this  increase  of  ill,  and 
wiio  denies  that  cultivated  taste  opens  new  inlets  to  de- 
light, sources  of  pleasure  that  the  ignorant  must  lack. 

D.  If  we  may  judge  of  human  happiness  by  outward 
show,  I  think  that  I  have  seen  more  perfect  happiness  in 
the  cellars  of  poverty,  and  even  in  the  hovels  of  the 
slave,  than  I  have  seen  in  polished  and  refined  saloons. 

C.  We  must^  determine  what  is  happiness  before  we 
can  proceed  with  certainty  to  say  who  has  it  in  the  largest 
measure.  It  seems  to  me  the  happiness  of  the  slave  re 
sembles  that  of  the  lower  animals  and  nothing  higher. 


10^\LE'S    HUNDRED    DIALOGUKS.  137 

B.  Yon  will  not  surely  say  that  knowledge  always 
elevates  and  refines  the  mind.  I  have  been  led  to  think 
it  oftener  sharpens  the  animal  instincts,  and  makes  re- 
finement to  consist  rather  in  delicate  vice  or  splendid 
evil,  than  in  true  elevation  of  the  soul  to  the  great  height-i 
of  virtue, 

D.  1  knew  a  learned  man  who  spent  his  life  in  edu 
eating  three  fair  daughters.  No  expense  was  spared  t 
give  them  such  instruction  as  would  make  them  orna 
ments  to  the  lordly  halls  of  wealth,  and  to  the  classi 
bowers  of  learning  and  refinement.  All  that  could  purifi 
tlie  taste  was  cultivated  without  stint,  and  the  Ibnd  la 
ther  had  the  pleasure  to  behold  his  daugliters  all  that  ht 
had  imagined. 

A.  Well,  they  were  happy  then  in  their  capacity  for 
enjoyment,  and  he  was  happy  in  his  great  success. 

B.  Not  so.  The  minds  thus  cultivated  lacked  the 
means  of  exercise.  The  father  had  impoveiished  him- 
self on  their  account,  and  they  had  wishes  that  could  not 
be  gratified,  and  aspirations  that  were  not  fulfilled.  In- 
lets to  ha'ppiness  had  been  opened  and  multiplied,  but 
all  their  tastes  were  far  above  their  means  of  gratifica- 
tion. Envy  and  disappointment  soon  ])egan  to  sour  the 
temper  and  embitter  life,  until  no  beings  could  be  more 
unhappy  or  less  fitted  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  within  reach. 
They  even  taunted  their  fond  parent  for  the  care  that  he 
had  lavished  on  them,  and  declared  that  they  regretted 
he  had  not  neglected  them,  tliat  they  might  love  what 
the  poor  love,  and  take  delight  in  what  the  ignorant  ad- 
mire. 

C.  'Tis  clear  that  the  instruction  was  defective,  and 
when  we  are  asked  whether  learning  increases  happi- 
ness, it  is  important  to  determine  not  only  what  is  happi- 
ness, but  what  is  learning,  too. 

B.  Will  you  name  the  points  in  which  the  education 
of  the  daughters  was  defective? 

C.  In  proper  views  of  life.  They  had  not  learned 
fhe  virtue  of  self-denial  and  the  grace  of  resignation. 

D.  'Tis  true,  and  these  defects  so  frequently  are  found 
that  a  person  of  what  oft  is  called  a  finished  education, 
who  comes  down   to  poverty  with   grace,  and   does  not 

12» 


138 

repine,  and  wince,  and  rail  at  fortune,  is  a  rare  exception 
and  remarked  by  all. 

B.  Besides,  'tis  well  to  notice  that  the  defects  just 
named  in  finished  education  are  the  first  lessons  of  tlie 
poor  and  ignorant.  Their  daily  work  is  self-denial,  and 
resignation  is  an  early  habit.  What  to  the  learned  and 
refined  is  keenest  torture,  has  no  terror  for  tliem  ;  and  Gaii 
has  well  ordained  it  so,  since  wealth  and  ease,  knowledge 
and  nice  taste  must  be  denied  to  the  greater  part  of 
men. 

A.  If  it  be  true  that  ignorance  is  bliss,  as  you  pretend, 
then  must  the  child  be  happier  far  than  the  adult,  for 
though  the  adult  may  little  know,  even  that  little  will  be 
much,  compared  with  childish  ignorance. 

D.  Who  that  ever  saw  the  innocent  playfulness  of 
infancy  can  doubt  that  the  happiest  hours  of  life  are 
those  which,  having  no  past,  know  no  regrets,  and,  seeing 
no  future,  know  no  fear.  The  present  is  their  world,  and 
that  is  always  full  of  suns! line. 

A.  Not  always,  for  their  tears  fall  easily  and  con- 
stantly, I  think, 

B.  But  they  are  April  showers,  that  last  not  long,  and 
but  refresh  the  earth,  and  leave  no  gloomy  clouds  behind. 
1  think  no  one  can  doubt  that  childhood  is  the  happiest 
part  of  life. 

C.  The  argument  is  specious  but  not  sound,  for  all 
the  joys  of  childhood  cease  to  be  joys  when  the  mind  is 
more  mature. 

B.  I  grant  it,  but  the  question  is  not  whether  the  hap- 
])iness  of  knowledge  is  of  a  higher  kind  than  that  of  ig- 
norance, but  whether  the  highly  educated  man  is,  on  the 
whole,  more  happy  than  the  untaught. 

E.  As  I  have  heard  the  conference  thus  far,  and  have 
not  taken  sides,  may  I  be  now  permitted  to  remark,  that, 
were  the  world  what  it  should  be,  and  what  it  might  be- 
come, if  all  were  wise,  then  every  word  of  truth,  and  ail 
that  can  deserve  the  name  of  knowledge,  w^ould  conduce 
to  the  happiness,  not  only  of  the  possessor,  but  of  all 
around  him.  The  difficulty  is,  that  men  "get  knowl- 
edge "  as  the  wise  man  bids,  but  disregard  the  rest  of  the 
command,    "with  all    thy  getting,   understanding  get." 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  13U 

Knowledge  with  understanding  is  what  we  call  wisdom, 
Jind  no  one  can  be  made  less  happy  by  possessing  wisdom. 
If  we  allow  the  soul  to  be  more  excellent  tlian  the  body, 
then  must  its  pleasures  be  superior,  too.  The  daughters 
who  were  admitted  to  a  higher  sphere  and  fell  from  it, 
would  not  have  fallen  from  happiness,  had  they  but  used 
thalr  knowledge  as  they  might,  instead  of  mourning  over 
it.  There  was  a  world  around  them,  and  they  had  the 
means  of  doing  good  to  others,  but  their  selfishness  made 
them  repine  at  their  loss,  and  rest  in  idleness.  The 
first  and  chief  ingredient  of  happiness  is  innocence,  the 
next  is  active  goodness,  Tliese,  poor  men  may  all  pos- 
sess as  well  as  the  rich  ;  and  when  to  these  is  added 
knowledge  of  the  right  kind,  this  knowledge  confers 
})ijwer,  and  makes  the  possessor  happier  by  the  means 
iL  places  in  his  hands  to  bless  mankind. 


LXIL     THE  GABBLER. 

SQUIRE     FLIT    AND     MESSRS.    JONES,    BAYLEY    AND     BARNEY,    ITIS 
NEIGHBORS. 

Flit.  How  are  you,  Jones?  Is  that  you,  Bayley  ? 
and  Barney  too  ?  How  strange  that  I  should  kill,  —  hit,  J 
mean,  three  birds  with  one  stone.  Talking  of  killing, 
did  I  ever  tell  you  of  that  gunning  affair  down  at  the 
Cape  ? 

Jones.     When  your  gun  kicked  you  over,  and  you  — 

Flit.  False,  Jones,  every  word  of  it.  By  the  way, 
how  did  your  boy  get  out  of  that  frolic  at  Brighton? 
Made  him  pay  well,  hey  ?     I'  11  tell  you  what — 

Bay.     Have  you  heard  the  news  ? 

Flit.  News,  no,  what  news  ?  There  was  no  news  an 
hour  ago,  except  the  loss  of  the  Constitution  at  Barba- 
does,  and  every  body  expected  that.  Why,  when  she 
was  at  anchor  here,  I  went  on  board  and  told  the  captain 
she  was  unseaworthy,  but  nobody  will  take  advioe  now 


140 

o*-days.     They  know  too  much,  they  know  too  much. 

Barney.  That 's  what  th^y  sometimes  say  of  some- 
body not  a  mile  off. 

Flit.  Tiieydo?  Who  does  ?  The  mischief  with  me 
is,  I  never  speak  my  mind.  I  should  save  the  State  mill- 
ions of  dollars  if  I  spoke  out,  and  told  half  I  see.  J3y 
the  way,  Bayley,  why  does  your  wife  wear  that  shocking 
boimet  I  I  would  not  let  my  cook  wear  such  an  unbecom- 
in£i-  affair 


Bay.     She  thinks 


Flit.     Poll,  no  matter  what  she  thinks,  —  it 's  a  fright. 

Bay.  People's  opinions  differ  in  matters  of  taste, 
and 

Flit.-  Taste,  what's  taste?  Barney,  what  are  you 
going  to  do  with  that  boy  of  yours  ?  He  is  a  plaguy 
smart  dog,  and  ought  to  be  employed  Why  don't  you 
send  him  to  sea  ? 

Barn.     The  sea  is  a  bad  school  of  morals. 

Flit.  So  is  the  land,  not  a  cent  to  choose  b'etween 
them.  When  I  was  a  boy  just  fourteen  years,  three 
months,  and  five  days  old,  I  remember  my  age,  because 
that  day,  General  Washington  died,  — as  I  was  saying  — 
what  was  I  saying?  —  gracious,  how  a  man  forgets  what 
is  at  his  tongue's  end.  What  on  earth  ivas  1  saying? 
Jones  wake  up  I  what's  the  matter  with  you? 

Jones.  Nothing 's  the  matter,  I  was  hearing  you  run 
on. 

Flit.  Run  on!  what  do  you  mean  by  running  on? 
I  '11  talk  vi^ith  any  man  on  any  subject  for  a  wager.  Do 
you  know  that  the  other  day,  at  town  meeting,  I  was 
suddenly  called  on  to  speak.  •!  had  n't  an  idea  in  my 
head,  and  hadn't  heard  the  previous  speakers.  No  mat- 
ter, says  I,  here  it  goes,  —  and  I  plunged  right  into  the 
debate,  and 

Bay.     Did  not  say  a  word  to  the  point,  of  course. 

Flit.  Who  says  so  ?  Now  look  here,  I  '11  prove  to  you 
til  at  it  is  all  false.  You  see,  the  town  liad  concluded  not 
to  make  tlie  road  by  the  great  swamp ;  well,  the  object 
\v.\r,  lo  make  them  change  their  determination. 

J^tiy      They  did  n't  do  it. 

Flit      No,  but  they  ought  to  have  done  it,  and  I  told 


141 

them  so,  and  )ne  of  these  days,  if  not  sooner,  they  '11  see 
their  mistake.  {He  sits  with  his  back  to  Jones  and  the 
others.)  You  see  there  is  but  one  way  to  manage  a  town, 
and  that  is,  to  seem  to  want  what  you  don't  want,  and 
then  they  '11  oppose  you,  and  grant  the  opposite,  which  is 
just  what  you  do  want. 

Jones.     Wisdom  will  die  when  you  do,  Squire. 

{Jones  goes  out.) 

Flit.  You  may  say  what  you  please,  but  there  must 
be  somebody  to  take  the  lead  in  public  affairs,  or  nothing 
will  be  done. 

Bay.  You  ought  lo  go  to  Congress,  Squire.  They 
want  some  men  there  mat  know  what 's  what. 

( Bayky  goes  out. ) 

Flit.  It  is  not  for  me  to  say  any  thing  on  tliat  subject, 
but,  if  I  were  in  Congress,  I  beheve  i  could  save  the 
country  milHons  of  dollars  that  are  now  wasted. 

Barn.  You  ouglit  to  go,  Squire,  and  who  knows  but 
you  may  be  President  yet. 

Flit  Stranger  things  have  happened.  Why  there 
was  Bill  Jinnison,  an  old  school-mate  of  mine,  so  far  be- 
low me  that  I  could  not  see  him  without  a  telescope  — 
(Barney  goes  out.)  — well,  he  married  a  woman  with  prop- 
erty, and  got  into  a  bank,  and  then  into  a  rail  road,  and 
then  into  Congress.  Talking  of  Congress,  do  you  know, 
Bayley,  that  the  Common  Council  have  concluded  to  light 
the  streets  with  gas  ?  Now,  you  see,  gas  is  well  enough, 
but  what  shall  I  do  with  my  oil?  I  've  laid  in  enough  to 
supply  the  town  a  year.  Now  don't  interrupt  me,  and 
I  '11  tell  you  how  1  came  to  buy  such  a  lot  of  it.  You 
know  the  Sperm  Works  failed  ;  well,  I  told  the  assignees, 
—  you  understand,  the  assignees.  —  now  Jones  do  n't 
you  interrupt  me  because  your  brother  happens  to  be  one 
of  the  assignees; — Barney,  who  was  the  auctioneer 
when  your  things  were  sold? — don't  you  remember? 
well,  no  matter.  He  sold  the  Sperm  Factory,  and  I  laid 
in  with  him  {lie  turns  his  chair  round,  ojnd  sees  thai  he  is 
alone)  hooraw  I  all  gone.  Well,  it  is  about  time  for  me  to 
go,  too. 


142  fovvle's  hundred  dialogues. 

LXIII.     POVERTY  AND  CRIME, 

DIVES    AND    LAZARUS. 

Dives,  What  say  you  ?  Have  I  canght  you  in  tl  € 
ct? 

Lazarus.     You  have,  and  I  can  but  submit. 

D.     You  do  confess  the  theft  ? 

L.     I  do.     I  will  not  hide  the  truth. 

D.     If  truth  you  speak,  say  why  you  stole  at  all. 

L.     I  needed  food,  and  needed  means  to  purchase  it. 

D.  The  State  will  find  you  food  and  work  besides, 
when  you  are  sentenced  and  confined. 

L.     'T  were  better  to  have  found  me  both  before. 

D.  If  you  had  been  disposed  to  work,  you  had  not 
thus  been  driven  to  theft. 

L.  You,  who  abundance  have,  know  not  the  trials 
ai)d  temptations  that  beset  the  destitute,  and  sway  their 
better  will. 

D      You  had  no  right  to  steal. 

L.     I  had  a  right  to  live.     My  children 

D.     You  have  children,  then  ? 

L.     Five,  till  two  were  taken. 

D.     How  taken  ? 

L.     By  disease,  induced  by  destitution  and  exposure. 

D.     Audi  you  did  steal  to  save  the  rest  ? 

L.  Even  so.  Would  I  had  done  it  sooner  for  their 
sakes.  I  did  not  yield  till  every  hope  was  lost,  and  then 
the  sacrifice  was  vain. 

D.  '  T  was  a  hard  case.  How  came  you  destitute  to 
this  degree  ? 

L.  I  worked  too  hard,  fell  sick,  and  found  no  friends. 
My  wife  then  overtoiling,  fell  a  sacrifice  for  those  she 
loved. 

Z).     How  was  your  boyhood  passed  ? 

L.  In  poverty.  My  parents  died  while  yet  I  was  a 
child,  and  I  had  none  to  guide  me. 

T).  Somebody  was  to  blame.  Did  you  not  ask  assist- 
ance ? 

L.  Often,  and  sometimes  found  it,  but  no  oue  cared 
enough  to  take  me  by  the  hand  and  save  me. 


row  J:'6    IIINDRED    DIALOGUES.  145 

D.     Did  you  e'er  tell  your  case  to  aiy  one  ? 

L.     Yes,  often. 

D.     To  wlioni  ? 

L.  To  you.  I  wpU  remember  your  reply,  —  "I've 
heard  that  tale  before.     You  beggars  are  impostors  all." 

D.  I  have  been  oft  imposed  upon.  Does  not  the  citj 
(»r  the  State  provide  for  such  as  you  ? 

L.  Not  till  we  break  the  law.  It  leaves  us  free  till 
then, 

D.     You  knew  the  law  ? 

L.  I  did,  but  did  not  make  it ;  never  gave  it  my  as- 
sent. Had  poor  men  made  the  law,  it  had  preventea 
crime,  or  been  more  mild  and  just  in  punishing. 

D.  How  just!  It  cannot  sure  be  wrong  to  punish 
theft ! 

L.  The  poor  man's  law  had  looked  to  motives,  not  to 
acts  ;  it  would  have  weighed  temptations,  circumstances, 
and,  mayhap,  have  laid  the  penalty  on  those,  who,  hav- 
ing more  than  they  could  use,  imparted  not  to  those  who 
sorely  lacked. 

D.  Then  you  think  me  more  guilty  than  yourself  Is 
it  not  so  ?     Speak  out.     Be  plain. 

L.  1  say  not  so  ;  but,  if  the  blessed  rule  of  doing  as 
we  would  be  done  unto  had  been  observed,  I  had  not 
stolen ;  and  if  none  but  he  who  is  without  offence  may 
cast  the  stone 

JD.     You  do  not  mean  to  impeach  my  character  withal  I 

L.     The  world  has  said  that  you  were  hard. 

D.  Hard,  but  most  just.  I  never  took  a  farthing  not 
my  own. 

L  Your  shrewdness  all  allow.  Your  bargains  all  are 
good,  as  those  are  called  which  often  are  unequal. 

D.  Yes,  they  are  always  good.  "  I  often  shave  the 
flats . "     ( Exultingly. ) 

L.  And  take  what,  had  they  equal  knowledge,  equal 
skill,  they  had  not  lost.  In  God's  just  balance,  this  may 
be  called  theft  without  the  excuse  of  want.  I  never  thus 
have  WTonged  the  ignorant,  and  never  stole  when  I  had 
means  to  live. 

D.  The  world  does  not  call  shrewdness  theft,  and  a 
sharp  bargain  is  applauded  oft. 


144 

L.  The  wretched  look  on  Hfe  with  other  eyes  than 
tlie  siiccessfiiL  1  have  sometimes  tiioiight  when  I  have 
seen  the  judge  condemn  the  criminal,  whom  ignorance 
and  tem{)tation  caused  to  fall,  that,  had  their  circum- 
stances heen  exchanged,  their  fate  had  been  reversed. 

D.     You  would  make  all  men  thieves  I 

i.     O,  no  ;  I  would  make  all  men  merciful. 

D.  What  would  you  have  me  do,  were  you  now  in 
my  place  ? 

L.  Do  as  you  would  be  done  unto.  Forgive  as  you 
would  hope  to  be  forgiven. 

D.  'T  will  do  no  good  thus  to  forgive,  if  the  tempta- 
tion or  necessity  to  repeat  the  oflence  be  not  removed. 

L.     'T  is  true  —  I  must  submit. 

D.  Not  so.  The  lecture  you  have  read  me  shall  not 
so  be  lost.  I  will  forgive  the  offence,  and  freely  will  sup- 
ply what  you  most  need  to  save  your  httle  ones  from  want, 
and  to  enable  you  to  begin  a  course  of  honest  industry  ;  — 
and  God  forgive  my  trespasses  as  I  do  yours. 


LXIV.    THE  "SHOOTING  OF  YOUNG  IDEAS." 

[Characters.  Mr.  John  Rathripe,  almost  eight  years  of  age,  and 
nis  brother,  Mr.  Robert,  just  turned  of  nine.  Their  father  sitting, 
unnoticed  by  them,  behind  a  screen.  The  boys  have  cigars  in  their 
mouths.] 

Robert.  ( Gaping.)  Horrid  long  days  these,  Jack,  though 
we  see  so  little  of  them.  I  should  die  if  I  had  to  get  up 
before  dinner.  How  do  you  feel  after  the  ball?  (Gaping.) 

John.  {Gaping.)  Done  up,  I  am,  confound  the  stupid 
thing.  I  couldn't  see  it  through,  and  came  home  soon 
after  day-break.     (  Gaping  ) 

R.  I  could  have  staid  till  noon.  What  was  the  mat- 
ter? Would  not  Fanny  dance  with  you?  I  had  a  glorious 
romp  with  Kate ;  waltzed  with  her  every  time  ;  worship- 
ped her  all  night,  and  dreamed  of  her  ever  since.  But, 
tell  me,  who  cut  you  out  in  Fanny's  eyes,  I  thought  you 
were  the  light  of  them,     Who  is  your  rival  ? 


145 

/.  That  sneak  of  a  Bill  Daisy.  By  the  powers,  I've 
a  mind  to  challenge  the  rascal  for  interfering.  She  was 
mine  by  all  the  laws  of  honor. 

R.  I'd  sue  her  for  breach  of  promise,  if  you  have 
proof.     How  do  you  know  she  loves  you,  Jack? 

J.  She  has  said  she  did  a  thousand  times.  I  never 
gave  her  a  lot  of  sugar- plums  without  receiving  a  vow  of 
eternal  constancy  in  return.  And  I  love  Fan,  and  have 
no  idea  of  being  cut  by  her,  or  cut  out  by  Bill. 

R.  You  must  shoot  Bill,  that 's  clear,  and  then  perhaps 
Fan  will  lapse  to  the  survivor.  She 's  a  pretty  girl,  that 's 
a  fact,  but  growing  old.  More  than  eight.  Too  old  for 
you.  Jack. 

J.  Not  eight,  by  Jupiter !  If  any  body  else  had  called 
her  eight,  I'd  have  called  him  out.  But  she  shall  not  have 
Bill  Daisy,  that 's  plump.  I'll  kill  him  and  blow  out  her 
brains  first. 

R.  You  are  a  boy  in  these  matters,  Jack.  Let  me 
give  you  a  little  of  my  experience.  I  go  with  the  poet, 
and  if  a  girl  won't  have  me,  and  I  can't  make  her,  I  say, 
"  the  Devil  take  her,"  and  there  's  an  end  on 't.  You  are 
no  philosopher.  Jack,  not  a  bit  of  one. 

/.  No.  I'm  sick  of  the  world,  sick  to  death  of  it,  and 
mean  to  turn  hermit  right  away. 

R.  You  had  better  turn  nun,  for  hermits  have  beards ! 
But  how  long  have  you  been  so  sick  of  the  world  ? 

J.  Almost  twenty-four  hours,  by  gracious  !  Job  could 
not  have  stood  such  misanthropy  so  long. 

R.  But  to  change  the  subject ;  are  you  going  to  the 
fancy  ball  to-night  ?  I  should  go,  if  I  were  you,  and  flirt 
with  some  girl  merely  to  vex  Fanny.  Nothing  will  bring 
her  to  her  senses  so  soon. 

J.  I'll  go,  that's  poz.  But,  Bob,  what  is  to  become 
of  our  lessons,  and  the  school?  We  have  both  played 
truant  to-day  by  oversleeping  ourselves. 

R.  Better  do  so  than  play  the  fool.  I  '11  tell  you  what, 
Jack,  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  "all  knowledge 
increaseth  sorrow,  and  all  study  is  weariness  to  the  flesh." 
Dr.  Johnson  found  it  so,  and  let  the  truth  out,  and  I'll 
have  none  of  it. 

J.    I  think  it  was  Solomon  said  so,  but  whoever  it  was, 

13 


146  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

it  took  him  half  a  century  to  find  it  out,  and  I  am  going 
to  save  half  a  century  of  my  life  by  adopting  his  experi- 
ence. I  know  of  no  greater  bore  to  a  sensible  man 
{atr etching  himself  upward,  and  pulling  up  his  dickey,)  than 
what  is  denominated  study.  Solomon  is  the  boy  for  me. 
I  go  for  Solomon  in  the  matter  of  education. 

R.     Hooraw  for  Solomon  !     I  go  for  him,  too. 

Father  {coming  forward  with  a  heavy  switch  in  his  hand.) 
So  do  I.  Solomon  recommends  the  rod  for  the  fool's  back, 
and  I  am  going  to  try  his  recipe.  Come,  {to  John)  venera- 
ble hermit,  take  off  your  jacket.  And  you,  {to  Robert) 
veteran  of  nine  years,  ten  days  and  some  hours,  minutes 
and  odd  seconds,  take  off  yours. 

J.  Oh,  Father,  I'll  never  play  truant  again,  nor  stay 
out  all  night,  — oh  !  nor  lie  abed  all  day, — oh  !  nor  fall  in 
love  ;  —  oh  !  nor  fight  a  duel,  —  oh  I  nor  turn  hermit,  —  oh  ! 
—  nor —  uor —  {Bvfore  each  oh  I  the  father  raises  the  rod, 
without  striking. ) 

F.  Very  well,  I  will  begin  with  Robert  then,  who 
being  comparatively  a  patriarch,  must  have  led  you  astray. 
{Raising  the  rod.)     Come,  prepare  ! 

R.  Oh  Sir,  you  never  told  me  it  was  wrong  to  do  as  ] 
have  done. 

F.  {Dropping  his  arjn.)  It  is  true,  boyi?,  I  never  did. 
Accidentally  overhearing  your  conversation,  I  saw  that  I 
was  to  blame  for  not  watching  better  over  my  children, 
and  saving  them  from  the  follies  that  are  turning  boys  and 
girls  into  men  and  women,  before  they  have  done  sucking 
their  tliumbs.  On  the  backs  of  the  parents  the  rod  should 
be  laid  with  a  heavy  hand.  My  twigs  are  sadly  bent, 
but  they  are  not  trees  yet,  thougl\  inclined  to  think  them- 
selves fully  grown.  If  I  had  taken  half  as  much  care  of 
tliem  as  of  my  worthless  poplars,  they  would  not  have 
been  so  deformed.  But  come,  boys,  go  to  bed  and  sleep 
off  your  dissipation,  and,  in  the  morning,  I  will  go  with 
you  to  school,  and  consult  with  your  teacher  about  your 
future  studies.  If  I  had  done  my  duty,  I  should  have 
•onsulted  him  long  ago. 


DIALOGU1.S.  147 

LXV.    CITY  SIGHTS  WITH  COUNTRY  EYES. 

MARY  AND  HER  AUNT  RACHEL. 

Mary.  Well,  Aunt  Rachel,  tell  me  what  you  saw  in 
the  city.     Did  it  equal  your  expectation  ? 

Aunt.  O  dear,  ask  me  no  questions,  child,  it  has  made 
me  so  dizzy  that  I  shall  never  recover  my  senses  again. 

M.  That  would  be  a  great  misfortune.  Aunt,  to  us  as 
well  as  to  yourself.  But  do  tell  rne  something  about  it. 
What  did  you  see  there  ? 

A.  What  didn't  I  see  there?  Houses  so  thick  you 
could  not  see  between  them,  and  people  so  thick  you  could 
uot  pass  between  them.  Every  body  in  motion  and  minding 
nobody  but  themselves,  and  every  body  in  every  body's 
way.  O  dear,  I  should  go  distracted  to  live  there  a  single 
day ! 

M.  Would  you  not  get  used  to  it.  Aunt  ?  Surely  those 
who  live  there  have  learned  to  bear  it. 

A.  I  could  as  soon  get  used  to  suicide.  And  how  the 
people  do  live  there  nobody  can  tell ;  and  where  they  get 
enough  to  eat  is  beyond  my  ken. 

M.     Mother  says  they  live  by  eating  each  other  up. 

A.  Well,  I  believe  they  do,  and  they  do  say  there  are  le 
gions  of  doctors  who  kill  folks  to  make  monotonies  of  them 

M.     What  are  mxjfiotonies,  Aunt  ? 

A.  Sluletons,  they  are  called  now,  my  dear,  but  they 
were  always  caWed  monotonies  in  my  day.  And,  O  deal 
me,  such  doings ! 

M.     What  did  they  do  to  you.  Aunt? 

A.  What  did  they  do  ?  Rather  ask  what  did  n't  they 
do  to  me  ? 

M.     Did  you  buy  the  dress  you  wanted  ? 

A.  O  dear,  I  can't  say  what  I  bought.  I  only  looked 
into  a  shop,  and  a  young  man  asked  me  very  politely  to 
walk  in.  I  told  him  T  was  looking  for  a  first  rate  muslin 
de  laine,  and  he  told  me  that  he  had  some  that  were  beau- 
tiful. So  I  stepped  in,  and  he  took  down  some  calicoes. 
I  wish  for  muslin  de  laines,  said  I.  Those  are  muslins, 
what  we   call  muslins,  said  he,    better  than  the  article 


148  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

you  inquired  for,  and  only  half  as  dear.  But  I  want  some 
thing  dark,  said  I,  and  not  such  light  and  briLiant  (Colors. 
No  you  do  n't,  nobody,  now,  wears  dark  colors,  and  you 
would  not  wish  to  be  singular.  Will  these  colors  wash  ? 
said  I  To  be  sure  they  will,  said  he,  and  so  I  did  just  as 
he  told  me  to  do. 

M.  And  just  what  you  ought  not  to  have  done,  I  dare 
say. 

A.  Exactly  so.  I  tried  a  piece  of  the  calico  on  my 
way  home,  and  it  did  wash  with  a  vengeance.     Every 

grain  of  the  colors  washed out,   and    left    the    bare 

white  cotton. 

M.     Was  that  all  you  bought? 

A.  O  no.  I  heard  a  man,  as  I  passed  another  shop, 
crying  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  going  I  going !  a  watch 
worth  a  hundred  dollars  going  for  one  I  who  '11  buy  ? 
"  Madam,"  said  he,  calling  right  out  to  me,  as  if  he  was 
an  old  acquaintance,  "will  you  see  this  watch,  a  gold 
watch,  patent  liver,  sold  for  nothing,  thrown  away?  "  Is 
it  good  gold,  said  I.  '*  I  sell  no  bad  gold,"  said  he.  Will 
it  go,  said  I.  "  It  is  going,"  said  he,  "  shall  it  go  for  noth- 
ing ?"  A  fellow,  who  was  standing  by,  said  he  would  give 
ten  dollars,  — if  he  had  them,  — and  so  I  gave  the  dollar 
and  now  they  tell  me  the  watch  is  only  Calvmized,  I 
think  they  call  it,  and  only  goes  —  when  it  is  carried. 

M.     What  is  Calvinized,  Aunt  ? 

A.  I  don't  know,  dear,  but  I  mean  to  ask  parson  Spin- 
text. 

M:    Did  you  visit  any  place  of  amusement  ? 

A.     O  yes.     I  went  to  see  the  Dire  — something. 

M.     The  Diorama,  you  mean,  I  suppose. 

A.  It  was  dire  enough,  for  it  was  3,000  miles  long,  1 
believe,  and  I  sat  through  the  whole  of  it.  I  broke  my 
back,  I  was  so  tired,  and  then  I  went  to  a  Phrenologist, 
one  who  iQlhforiens  by  feeling  of  one's  head. 

M.     What  did  he  say  of  your  head.  Aunt? 

A.  O,  he  said  I  had  Pliilopropotatoes  large,  and  was 
too  indulgent  to  my  children  and  grandchildren,  when, 
mercy  knows,  I  never  had  a  child  or  a  grandchild  in  the 
world.  He  told  rae  also,  that  I  must  know  a  thing  or  two, 
for  ••  my  form  was    large  and  my  language  decent ; ''  a 


foavle's  hundred  dialogues.  149 

rascal  I  to  sneer  at  my  form  because  I  was  a  little  bent, 
and  to  say  my  language  was  decent,  as  if  I  did  not  know 
what  'pcrirriety  and  grammar  wan  as  well  as  he  did. 

ilf.  VVell,  you  got  home  safe  and  sound,  notwithstand- 
ing your  adventures  and  alarms. 

A.  I  am  not  so  sure  about  that ;  for,  if  the  sights  and 
noise  of  the  city  did  not  utterly  craze  me,  1  thought  the 
cars  would.  O  dear,  did  you  ever !  Such  a  puffing  and 
wheezing  and  whirling,  I  wonder  any  head  is  left  on  my 
shoulders.  "The  Lord  made  man  upright,  but  he  has 
sought  out  many  inventions." 

M.     Well,  what  do  you  design  to  do  about  it,  Aunt? 

A.  Do  about  what?  I  mean  to  have  an  early  cup  of 
tea  and  goto  bed.  O  dear  I  how  wicked  men  must  be  to 
provoke  the  Lord  to  pile  them  up  in  cities. 

M.  Do  you  think  the  people  are  more  wicked  there 
than  here  in  the  country  ? 

A.  O  yes  indeed  I  and  I  was  afraid,  all  the  time  I  was 
there,  that  it  would  sink  and  swallow  me  up. 

M.  Do  you  mean,  dear  Aunt,  that  your  being  in  the 
city  made  you  afraid  it  would  sink,  when  it  did  not  sink 
witliout  you  ? 

A.  Very  well  I  very  well !  very  smart  on  your  poor 
old  Aunt.  Now  go  and  steep  that  tea,  or  I  shall  be  af- 
fronted with  you.  A  cup  of  good  hyson  will  build  me  up 
again. 

M.  You  shall  have  it,  Aunt  Rachel,  immediately. 
{^Lau  gibing.) 

A.  What  do  you  laugh  at,  niece  ?  at  my  infirmities,  I 
suppose. 

M.  No,  dear  Aunt,  the  naughty  idea  crossed  my  mind, 
that  if  a  cup  of  tea  will  build  you  up,  you  are  not  quite 
demohshed  yet. 

A.  Go  away  !  go  away  I  or  I  shall  have  to  apply  the 
rod,  that  was  spared  when  you  were  spoiled.  But  now  I 
think  of  it,  I  will  steep  it  myself,  lest  you  should  spoil  it 
Come,  see  how  I  do  it,  and  try  to  behave  more  respectfully* 


ia» 


150  fowle's  hundred  dialogue;s. 


LXVI.    CITY  AND    COUNTRY;    WHICH   IS 

BEST  ? 


Annie, 

Jessie, 

Bessie, 

;\.ATE, 

C'lara, 

.ViARY. 

■  ^'' 

Annie.  I  must  confess  that  I  prefer  the  country  because 
it  is  so  quiet.  The  bustle  of  tlie  city  so  excites  me,  that 
I  seem  to  be  always  in  a  hurry,  and  such  a  state  of  mind 
is  unfavorable  to  reflection. 

Kate.  That  is  the  very  reason  why  I  love  the  city.  O 
dear,  1  should  become  a  tortoise  or  a  snail,  if  I  were  con- 
demned to  live  here  where  nothing  moves,  and  nobody 
makes  a  noise. 

Bessie.  I  agree  with  Annie,  and  after  having  visited 
the  city,  I  always  come  back  to  the  woods  and  fields  with 
increased  delight. 

Jessie.  Why,  what  do  you  find  to  do  here,  where  there 
are  no  theatres,  no  concerts,  no  lectures  and  no  frolics  ?  i 
should  prefer  to  leave  vegetation  to  the  trees  and  tlie 
shrubs,  that  have  neitlier  eyes  nor  ears, 

Clara.  You  undervalue  our  rural  pleasures.  We  have 
our  theatre,  and  the  scenery  is  the  natural  landscape  ;  the 
actors  are  the  elements  ;  the  audience,  all  who  have  hearts 
to  feel  and  admire  the  perfect  works  of  the  Creator, 

Mary.  Yes,  and  you  have  concerts  also.  I  have  at- 
tended some  of  them,  where  the  chief  performers  were 
the  crickets  for  treble,  the  grasshoppers  or  locusts  for  tenor, 
.and  the  biill  frogs  for  double  base.  O  the  music  is  exquis- 
ite, and  the  sentiment  delightful ! 

A.  It  is  all  that  to  one  whose  ear  has  not  been  turned 
from  the  simple  love  of  nature  to  the  refinements  of  art. 
I  should  even  claim  that  we  had  our  lectures  too,  for  we 
find  "  Books  in  the  running  brooks  "  that  it  would  be  hard 
for  you  to  find  in  city  gutters  ;  sermons  in  stones,"  such 
as  you  do  not  often  find  in  "  city  bricks  ";  — and  there  is 
so  little  temptation  here  that  we  may  finish  the  remark  of 
the  poet,  and  say,  we  find  "  good  in  every  thing." 

K.     Well  done,  Annie!     You  innocent  little  creature, 


151 

liow  much  more  learned  your  books  from  the  brooks  must 
be  tlian  those  in  our  great  libraries.  And  your  sermons, 
too,  how  eloquent  tliey  must  be  compared  with  those  we 
liave  from  living  preachers.  I  wonder  if  you  always  re- 
member the  text. 

J.  And  then  only  think  of  the  little  rural  innocents 
finding  good  in  every  thing,  and  laying  up  goodness  as 
bees  do  honey.  It  is  really  affecting,  isn't  it,  ray  little 
Betty  Beeswax.     {To  Bessie.) 

B,  You  may  laugh  at  our  innocent  pleasures,  but  this 
will  not  lead  me  to  undervalue  them.  Did  you  ever  think, 
my  dear  Jesse,  that  when  man  was  perfect  he  lived  in  a 
garden. 

/.  Yes,  dear,  and  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  how  he 
happened  to  be  turned  out  of  it,  when  there  was  no  city 
influence  to  corrupt  him. 

C.  We  do  not  pretend  that  those  who  live  in  the  coun- 
try are  naturally  better  or  purer  than  those  brought  up  in 
the  city  ;  but  only  that  the  influences  which  surround  them 
are  more  favorable  to  virtue. 

M.  The  most  you  can  say  of  rustic  virtue,  then,  is, 
that  it  is  untried  ;  untried  virtue  is  no  virtue.  I  prefer 
that  which  has  been  tried  and  has  overcome. 

A.  That  is  a  very  romantic  sentiment,  friend  Mary, 
but  I  think  it  is  a  very  dangerous  one.  No  one  pretends 
that  we  are  not  surrounded  by  trials  and  temptations 
enough  to  give  a  character  to  our  virtue. 

/.  I  suppose  you  find  so  much  occupation  in  making 
butter  and  cheese  that  you  do  not  find  time  for  reading 
and  music,  or  do  you  muse  over  the  milk  paris,  and  make 
inspiration  come  with  the  butter. 

K.     I  dare  say  you  little  innocents  all  write  Pastured 
poetry,  as  the  milkmaid  called  it.     JMow  I  have  tried  my 
hand  at  that,  and,  if  you  will  imagine  me  to  be  a  singer, 
you  shall  have  a  song.     ( She  sings. ) 
O,  love  in  a  cottage  is  fine, 
Though  pork  is  its  favorite  meat, 
And  milkmaids  look  all  but  divine. 
And  smell  of  the  barn  and  the  heat. 
A  nap  in  the  bower  is  sweet, 
If  bugs  do  not  enter  your  car, 


152 

And  a  walk  in  the  grass  would  be  neat, 
If  the  dew  would  forget  to  appear. 

O,  life  in  the  country  for  me  ! 
To  labor,  to  eat,  and  to  sleep ; 
O,  life  in  the  country  must  be 
Sublime  —  to  intelligent  sheep  I 

B.  I  have  heard  of  a  city  lyric  of  the  same  order.     It 
runs  thus  :     {She  sings.) 

O,  life  in  the  city  I  sing 
Where  notliing  of  nature  is  seen  ; 
Where  riches,  not  birds,  take  the  wing, 
And  only  the  dandies  are  green. 

O,  life  in  the  city  is  great, 
Where  ladies  have  nothing  to  do, 
And  faint,  if  they  walk  at  the  rate 
A  tortoise  may  leisurely  go. 

O,  life  in  the  city  is  brave, 
Where  he  who  can't  cheat  is  a  dunce, 
And  dyspeptics  go  down  to  the  grave, 
Who  eat  a  whole  cherry  at  once. 

O,  life  in  the  city  for  me, 
Red  bricks,  smoke,  and  noise  I  adore ; 
O,  life  in  the  city  must  be 
A  sublime  and  ineffable bore. 

C.  But  we  do  not  allow  that  because  we  work  we  are 
unfitted  for  intellectual  enjoyment.  You  may  smile  at  my 
simplicity,  l)ut  I  must  confess  that  my  mind  is  more  ex- 
panded by  the  unobstructed  view  of  the  heavens  in  the 
country,  than  by  the  view  of  streets  and  houses,  which, 
not  being  transparent,  prevent  any  wide  range  of  vision, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  impurities  of  the  atmosphere,  which 
are  not  favorable  to  enlarged  views  of  any  description. 

J.  Well  done,  Clara  I  You  study  Astronomy,  you  lit- 
tle philosopher,  do  you  ?  Now,  I  can  hardly  conceive  of 
any  thing  more  dreadful  than  to  try  to  imagine  a  great 
bear  or  any  other  figure  drawn  round  a  few  stars  that  do 
not  look  half  as  much  like  a  bear  as  they  do  like  a  milk- 
pan.     I  know  of  no  greater  bore  than  Astronomy. 


fowlk's  hundred    dialogues.  153 

K.  I  think  Botany  a  greater  one.  O  dear,  I  sometimes 
feel  disposed  to  faint  when  I  see  a  rinal  philosopher  ana- 
lyzing a  dandelion  or  something  like  it,  and  talking  about 
the  pistols  and  stam  —  some  things,  that  surround  the  cor- 
ollary.    I  despise  affectation. 

A.  My  dear  Kate,  I  am  no  friend  to  affectation  or 
pedantry,  but  I  am  surprised  to  hear  you  speak  so  dis- 
paragingly of  Astronomy  and  Botany.  We  find  much 
pleasure  in  both  ;  and  as  they  can  be  best  studied  in  the 
country,  we  sometimes  spend  a  leisure  hour  upon  them. 
I  sometimes  envy  you  your  city  libraries,  and  lectures, 
but  it  is  not  large  libraries  or  learned  lecturers  that  make 
profound  scholars. 

B.  After  all  that  has  been  said,  it  must  be  confessed 
that  the  happiness  of  a  city  or  a  country  life  depends,  in 
some  degree,  upon  habit.  We  might  have  been  satisfied 
with  a  city  life,  if  we  had  never  known  any  thing  better. 

M.  Well  done,  Bessie !  the  compliment  you  pay  to  a 
city  life  reminds  me  of  the  ant  who  was  so  tickled  be- 
cause Solomon  sent  the  loafer  to  her,  that  she  owned  he 
was  a  pretty  sensible  fellow  —  for  a  man. 

C.  Our  discussion  seems  to  have  ended  where  it  be- 
gan. The  truth  is,  I  suppose,  that  each  has  its  advantages, 
and  all  that  is  needed  to  make  the  city  or  the  country  a  de- 
sirable and  happy  residence,  is  a  disposition  to  improve 
every  opportunity  to  get  knowledge,  and  to  avoid  what- 
ever is  injurious  to  mind  or  morals. 

M.  The  only  fair  judgment  of  city  or  country  must  be 
based  upon  the  true  character  and  objects  of  each,  and 
not  upon  their  abuses. 


LXVII.    WORTH  MAKES  THE  MAN. 

MR.  STATELY  AND  HIS  SON   JOHN. 

Mr,  S.     My  son,  I  don't  like  to  see  you  so  much  with 
young  AliwelL     It  will  hurt  you. 


151 

John.  Hurt  me,  father?  Why,  there  is  not  a  more 
exemplary  young  man  m  the  city. 

Mr.  (S.  Poh,  poh,  yen  greening  I  I  did  not  alhide  to 
his  morals,  they  are  well  enough,  for  aught  I  know,  but 
he  can't  help  you. 

John.  He  has  helped  me,  sir.  If  I  ever  am  a  man,  I 
shall  owe  it  to  his  advice  and  example. 

Mr.  S.  Poh,  poh,  poh,  poh,  poh  !  I  tell  you,  if  you 
wish  to  rise,  you  must  drop  him. 

John.  I  do  not  see  how  dropping  him  will  make  me 
rise. 

Mr.  S.  I  dare  say  you  do  not  Do  you  not  know  that 
he  has  no  friends,  no  influence,  and,  if  you  rise,  you  must 
carry  him  with  you,  and  you  may  as  well  tie  a  millstone 
around  your  neck  at  once. 

John.  I  confess,  siip^  that  I  do  not  see  the  reason  on 
which  your  fears  are  based. 

Mr.  S.  Reason  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  If  a  young 
man  wishes  to  rise,  he  must  beware  of  all  clogs. 

John.  But,  sir,  the  acquaintance  of  such  a  young  man 
cannot  but  elevate  my  character. 

Mr.  S.  Elevate  a  fiddlestick.  What  has  character  to 
do  with  rising  in  the  world  ? 

John.     Sir ! 

Mr.  S.  Sir  I  Why  one  would  think  you  a  puppy  dog 
whose  eyes  were  not  yet  open.  Look  here,  sir  —  if  you 
expect  me  to  help  you,  you  must  give  up  all  such  notions, 
and  look  to  the  main  chance. 

John.  I  should  wish  to  be  guided  by  you,  sir,  in  every 
thing  that  does  not  touch  my  conscientious  discharge  of 
duty.  • 

Mr.  S.  Conscientious  discharge  of  nonsense.  If  you 
persist  any  longer  in  such  opposition  to  my  will,  I'll  dis- 
inherit you, 

Joh9t.  What  is  your  will,  sir?  it  has  never  been  clearly 
revealed  to  me. 

Mr.  S.  Hear  me,  then.  Young  All  well's  friends  are 
poor,  and  can  not  aid  you.  You  must  drop  him,  there- 
fore, and  seek  some  friends  whose  families  are  more  res- 
pectable. 

Joh7t      It   will    be   difficult   to   find   such.      AllweU'e 


15b 

family  are  virtuous,  intelligent,  amiable  and  philanthro- 
phic  to  a  fault.     They  have  every  thing  but  money. 

Mr  S.  They  may  as  well  have  nothing.  If  you 
wished  to  get  up  a  new  bank,  how  could  they  help  you  ? 
If  you  wish  to  save  and  to  accumulate,  how  will  their 
philanthrophy  assist  you  ?  Philanthrophy  is  to  wealth, 
what  a  leak  is  to  a  ship.  It  will  sink  you,  sir,  if  you 
listen  to  it.  The  [)rosident  of  our  bank  has  two  sons  and 
you  must  secure  their  friendship  ;  he  has  a  daughter,  and 
you  must  endeavor  to  secure  her  hand. 

John.  Sir,  the  young  men  are  profligates,  and  the 
young  lady  is 

Mr.  S.  A  fortune,  sir,  and  you  are  a  fool.  As  to  the 
sons,  I  know  they  are  said  "  to  live  freely,"  but  what 
has  that  to  do  with  the  matter  ? 

John.  Every  thing,  father.  I  can  not  number  such 
men  among  my  friends,  I  have  too  much  self  respect. 
Nor  can  1  marry  a  woman  I  despise. 

Mr.  S  Then  you  would  sacrifice  all  for  such  senti- 
mental nonsense;  I  tell  you,  sir,  there  is  but  one  thing 
needful,  and  that  you  must  be  willing  to  obtain,  or  give 
me  up. 

John.     What  is  that  one  thing,  sir  ? 

Mr,  S.  Money,  sir,  money.  Your  sentimentality  will 
say,  "  a  man  is  a  man  without  that,"  but  I  tell  you,  sir,  that 
without  money  an  angel  could  not  rise  in  the  world. 
Money,  sir,  brings  influence,  rank,  respect,  every  thing 
worth  having.     Money  is  the  chief  end  of  man. 

John.     I  own  it  is,  sir. 

Mr.  S.  Own  it  is,  then  why  do  you  object  to "  the 
means  that  lead  to  it  ? 

John.  Wealth  is  the  chief  end  of  man,  sir,  but,  in  my 
opinion,  it  ought  not  to  be. 

Mr.  S.     What,  sir  !    Do  you  flinch  again  ? 

John.  No,  sir,  I  do  not  flinch,  but  hope  to  be  as  firm 
as  the  adamantine  rock. 

Mr.  S.     You  then  will  reject  Allwell? 

John.     Never. 

Mr.  S.     You  then  renounce  your  father? 

John.     Never,  —  I  only  cleave  to  truth  and  Justice. 

Mr.  S.     Begone,  sir,  I  now  cast  you  ofT  for  ever. 


156  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

John.  T  submit,  but  can  give  up  the  fortune  better 
than  the  father.     Farewell,  sir. 

{He  goes  out.) 

F.  There's  something  in  the  boy,  and  I  would  do  as 
he  does,  were  I  he.  There  must  be  something  wrong 
when  noble  thoughts  like  his,  must  be  condemned.  Here 
comes  All  well,  I'll  have  a  talk  with  him. 

SCENE  II. 

MR.    STATELY   AND    ALLWELL. 

Mr.  S.  Allwell,  you  are  my  son's  companion  and  his 
friend.     Is  it  not  so?" 

All.  I  trust  it  is,  sir.  I  have  no  reason  to  distrust  his 
friendship. 

Mr,  S.    I  wish  you  to  renounce  him  utterly. 

AIL  A  father's  wish  is  sacred,  if  its  grounds  are  just. 
May  I  presume  to  ask  these  grounds,  ere  I  accede. 

Mr.  S.  Your  friendship  thwarts  my  views,  and  will  a 
deadly  breach  create  between  my  son  and  me. 

All,  How  can  this  be  ?  I  always  have  enjoined  on 
him  obedience  and  filial  love. 

Mr.  S.  Still  it  is  necessary  to  his  peace  that  you 
should  separate.  You  will  not  sure  refuse  to  benefit  your 
friend. 

All.     Does  he  request  the  sacrifice  ? 

Mr.  S.  No,  he  refuses  to  submit,  and  hence  the  appli- 
cation to  yourself     You  love  him  ? 

All.     Better  than  myself 

Mr.  S.     Then  you  will  give  him  up  for  his  best  good. 

All.  Make  this  appear,  and  I  will  do  it,  however  terri- 
rible  the  sacrifice. 

Mr.  S.  My  son  was  born  to  fortune,  and  has  a  right 
to  rank  with  princely  men. 

All.  He  has,  and  by  his  friendship  could  ennoble  the 
noblest  of  them. 

Mr.  S.  What  if  his  intimacy  with  yourself  prevented 
his  reception  where  he  has  a  right  to  look  ? 

All.     Then  let  me  fall  at  once. 

Mr.  S.      'Tis  nobly  spoken.      The   moment  that   tho 


157 

bond  'twixt  you    is  severed,  ten  thousand   pounds   are 
yours,  I'll  freely  give  it. 

AIL  O,  no,  I  do  not  sell  affection.  I  can  make  any 
sacrifice  of  it  for  your  son's  good,  not  for  mine  own.  If 
I  must  give  him  up,  let  it  be  freely  done.  I  can  accept 
no  bribe,  and  no  reward. 

Mr.  S.  And  are  you  sure  you  love  him  for  himself, 
and  not  for  the  aid  his  fortune  may  afford  you  ? 

AIL  Your  son  sought  me,  not  I  your  son.  Would  he 
were  destitute,  that  I  might  show  how  free  from  selfish- 
ness my  friendship  is. 

Mr.  S.  You  have  your  wish.  Be  it  known  to  you 
that  he  is  disinherited,  and  not  a  cent  that  I  possess  can 
e'er  be  his. 

AIL  Farewell,  sir.  The  only  circumstance  that 
marred  our  friendship  was  the  different  hope  that  wealth 
held  out.  Now,  we  are  equals,  and  our  union  perfect. 
Farewell,  sir.  You  have  lost  a  son  unequalled  for  his 
worth,  and  I  have  now  secured  him  for  a  friend. 
(He  goes  out.) 

F.  It  cannot  be  that  I  am  right  to  sever  such  a  union. 
If  wealth  is  the  chief  end  of  man,  it  only  can  be  so, 
when  it  is  used  to  make  men  happy.  I  have  wealth 
enough,  and,  if  it  can  not  be  that  my  son  stoop  to  his 
friend,  that  friend  shall  rise  to  him.  My  daughter's  hand 
can  never  find  a  hand  more  worthy.  Be  it  my  care  then 
to  unite  them.  The  friends  have  met  ere  this,  and  I 
must  find  them,  and  bestow  my  daughter  upon  one,  my 
blessing  upon  both. 


l08  FOULe's    HLNDRKD    DlALOGl'ES. 


LXVIII.    THE  DOCTOR  IN  SPITE  OF  HIM- 
SELF. 

[Altered  from  Moliere.  ] 

Note.  The  Author  supposes  a  rustic  who  wiis  at  first  niisiaken  for 
a  Physician,  to  be  compeHed  to  act  as  one.  The  patient,  tiie  daugh- 
ter of  a  geutleiuaii,  to  avoid  a  disagreeable  marriage,  pretends  to 
be  (hnni>. 


DOCTOR,    FATHER    AND    DAUGHTER. 

Rustic.     Well,  what  is  the  matter  witli  you  ? 

Daughter.  (Pointi)ig  at  her  tongue.)  Haii,  hi,  hoo, 
how,  hail,  lii,  hon. 

R.     What? 

D.     Han,  hi,  hon. 

R.     What  the  deuce  does  that  mean  ? 

Father.  That  is  the  trouble,  sir.  Slic  has  become  un- 
accountably duml>,  and  this  circumstance  has  delayed  her 
marriage ;  for  he  whom  she  is  to  marry  wishes  lier  to  be 
cured  first. 

R.  What  a  fool  I  I  wish  my  wife  had  the  same  dis- 
ease, I  would  take  care  not  to  let  any  one  cure  her.  Does 
the  disease  trouble  her  much  ? 

P.     Yes,  dreadfully. 

R.     So  much  the  better.     Does  she  suffer  much  pain? 

F.     Shocking  pain. 

R.  That's  right.  (To  the  daughter.)  Give  me  your 
hand.  {To  the  father.)  Her  pulse  indicates  tiiat  she  is 
dumb. 

F.  Yes,  that's  the  trouble.  You  have  hit  it  tlie  first 
time. 

R.  Ay,  ay.  We  doctors  know  tilings  at  a  glance. 
An  ignoramus  would  have  Ijeen  embarrassed,  and  you 
would  have  been  told  this  thing,  and  tliat  tiling,  but  [ 
come  to  the  point  at  once,  and  tell  you  tliat  your  daugh- 
ter is  dumb. 

F.  Yes,  b  it  T  should  like  to  have  you  tell  me  how  she 
came  so. 


DIALOGUES.  159 

R.  Nothing  is  more  easy.  It  comes  from  her  having 
lost  her  voice. 

F.     Very  well,  but  what  made  her  lose  her  voice  ? 

R.  All  our  best  authors  will  tell  you  that  it  arose  from 
some  obstruction  in  the  action  of  the  tongue. 

F.     What  can  the  obstruction  be  ? 

R.     Aristotle,  on  this  subject,  says some  very 

fine  things. 

F,     I  dare  say  he  does. 

R.     O,  he  was  a  great  man,  that  Aristotle. 

F.     No  doubt. 

R.  A  great  man,  every  inch  of  him ;  a  Goliath  of  a 
man.  But  to  return  to  our  reasoning.  I  hold  that  this 
hindrance  or  obstruction  to  the  action  of  the  tongue,  is 
caused  by  certain  humors,  which  we  knowing  ones  call 
peccant  humors,  that  is  to  say,  humors  peccant,  not  unlike 
vapors,  formed  by  the  exhalations  of  influences,  which 
rise  from  the  region  of  diseases,  coming,  if  1  may  say,  — 
to  — .     Do  you  understand  Latin? 

F.     Not  a  word. 

R.     You  don't  understand  Latin ! 

F.     No,  not  a  syllable  of  it. 

R.  Cadricias  arci  thurum,  catcdamus,  singulariter  nomi- 
natico,  hoc  tnusa,  bonus,  bona,  bonum.  Deus  sanctus,  nos- 
trum 'panem  quotiduom,  etiam,  quiry  query  quory  substantivo 
concordat  in  generi  numerum  et  casus. 

F.     Gracious  !  why  did  n't  I  study  Latin  I 

R.  So  these  vapors,  of  which  I  spoke,  passing  ^rom 
the  left  side,  where  the  liver  is,  to  the  right  side,  where 
the  heart  lies,  it  happens  that  the  lung,  which  we  call 
ramram  in  Latin,  having  communication  with  the  brain, 
which  we  call  masmas  in  Greek, — do  you  understand 
Greek  ? 

Fs     Not  a  syllable  of  it.     I  wish  I  did. 

R.  No  matter.  The  vapors  I  spoke  of  fill  the  ventri- 
cles of  the  breast-bone  —  and  — .  Now  understand  the 
chain  of  reasoning,  I  beseech  you,  because  the  vapors 
have  a  certain  mahgnity,  —  that  —  you  understand  me  — 
that  is  caused  by  the  aforesaid  humors,  so  thsit  ossabundus, 
nequa,  nequam,  quipsa  milas,  and  that's  all  the  trouble 
with,  your  daughter. 


160  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

F.  That  seems  to  be  clear  enough,  only  I  do  n't  under- 
Btand  about  the  place  of  the  heart  and  liver.  It  seems  to 
me  y  )u  have  placed  them  wrong,  and  the  heart  is  on  the 
left  side,  and  the  liver  on  the  right. 

R.  It  used  to  be  so,  but  we  have  changed  all  that,  and 
now  administer  accordingly. 

F.  1  did  n't  know  that,  and  must  beg  pardon  for  my 
ignorance. 

R.  There  is  no  harm  done.  You  are  not  expected  to 
know  such  matters. 

P.  Just  so.  But,  sir,  what'  do  you  think  must  be 
done? 

R.     What  do  I  think  must  be  done  ? 

F     Yes. 

R.  My  advice  is  to  send  her  to  bed,  and  give  her  a 
little  toast  dipped  in  gin  and  water. 

F      What  for,  sir  ? 

R.  Because  there  is  in  the  toast  and  gin,  when  united, 
a  certain  sympathetic  virtue  which  makes  one  talk.  You 
know  they  never  give  any  thing  else  to  parrots,  and  they 
learn  to  speak  by  eating  it. 

F.  That's  true.  O,  what  a  man  !  Here,  servants ! 
servants  !     Bring  some  bread  and  gin !     {He  goes  out.) 

R.  That  heart  on  the  right  side  was  a  sad  mistake  ! 
I  must  stick  to  my  Latin,  and  then  my  blunders  will  nev- 
er be  discovered. 


LXIX.     REGULUS. 

REGULUS  AND  A  LEGATE  FROM  THE  ROMAN  SENATE. 

Leg.  The  Roman  Senate,  honoring  the  riame  of  Regu- 
lus,  and  pitying  his  misfortunes,  invite  him  now  to  enter 
Rome,  and  meet  them  in  the  Capitol. 

Reg.  I  am  no  longer  Regulus.  A  Carthaginian  pris- 
oner, come  to  proffer  terms  of  peace,  that,  but  for  his 
mismanagement,  had   ne'er  been  asked,  I  may  not  entei 


DIALOGUES.  161 

Rome,  but  nere,  without  her  walls,  will  wait  the  Senate's 
answer. 

Leg.  The  Senate  have  decreed  peace  upon  any  terms, 
that  will  redeem  her  Regulus  from  chains. 

Reg.  It  must  not  be.  Carthage,  reduced  by  our  suc- 
cess, must  unconditionally  fall,  and  Regulus  can  never 
find  a  better  time  to  die  for  Rome. 

Leg.     Think  of  your  wife  and-  children. 

Reg.  I  think  of  Rome,  whose  glory  shall  advance, 
let  who  may  fall. 

Leg.     Your  family  must  plead  with  you. 

Reg.  I  shall  not  see  them,  lest  affection's  pleadings 
may  unman  me.  I  have  resolved  to  counsel  Rome  to 
reject  the  peace  that  Carthage  claims  by  virtue  of  my 
capture.  'Tis  better  far  that  Regulus  should  die  than 
Rome  surrender  the  advantage  gained.  Say  this  to  the 
Senate,  and   ask  them  to  forget  that  Regulus  has  lived. 

Leg.  Regulus  will  not  leave  his  wife  and  children  and 
return  to  prison  and  to  death,  when  he  can  now  command 
his  freedom. 

Reg,  I  gave  my  word,  good  Legate,  that  I  would 
return  when  I  had  borne  the  message  of  the  Carthaginian 
senate  to  our  own. 

Leg.    A  promise  wrung  by  force  can  never  bind. 

Reg.  Then  it  should  ne'er  be  made.  Death  should 
be  rather  borne,  if  that  is  the  alternative. 

Leg.  The  senate  have  judged  otherwise,  and  Punic 
faith,  that  is  a  bye-word,  holds  such  promise  vain.  Were 
Regulus  a  Carthaginian  — 

Reg.  He  is  a  Roman  I  The  promise  to  return  was 
freely  given,  not  forced.  It  was  my  fear  that  Rome, 
remembering  the  service  I  had  done  her,  might  be  thus 
moved  to  embrace  the  offer  of  the  enemy,  and  yield  up 
her  advantage  to  preserve  my  life,  and  I  came  in  person, 
to  protest  against  such  weakness. 

Leg.  Is  there  no  motive  that  can  win  you  from  your 
purpose  ? 

Reg.     None.    My  word  is  given. 

Leg.  The  holy  Pontifcx  will  leap  with  joy  to  loose 
you  from  your  promise. 

Reg.     He  hath  no  power.     My  word  once  given,  no 


W2 

power  on  earth,  above,  or  under  it,  can  offer  absoluLion. 

Leg.  The  Senate  by  a  solemn  embassy  may  induce 
the  Carthaginian  to  release  you  from   the  promise. 

Reg.  E'er  that  can  save  my  honor,  I  must  return  and 
place  me  in   his    power,  as  when  I  gave  the  pledge. 

Leg.  Your  death  awaits  the  unsuccessful  issue  of 
your  embassy. 

Reg.  Not  so,  good  Legate,  If  no  peace  is  made,  the 
embassy  will  prove  successful.    To  that  end  I  came. 

Leg.     Thy  death  is  certain,  then. 

Reg.  It  always  was,  and  never  comes  too  soon  to  him 
who  meets  it  in  his  country's  cause. 

Leg.     And  I  must  tell  the  Senate 

Reg.  To  grant  no  peace  to  Carthage,  and  to  think  no 
more  of  Regulus. 

Leg.     What  message  shall  I  bear  to 

Reg.  Name  them  not.  I  have  served  my  country  they 
are  hers. 

Leg.     But  you  will  leave  them  destitute  and  poor. 

Reg.     No,  —  rich,  rich,  rich. 

Leg..     In  what  ? 

Reg.  In  honor.  The  wealth  I  might  bequeath  would 
soon  be  lost,  but  now  I  shall  bequeath  a  lasting  heritage. 
Tlie  memory  of  him  who  kept  his  word,  at  such  expense, 
will  live,  and  grow  more  glorious  as  the  world  grows  old. 
Farewell.     The  ship  that  bears  me  back  to  prison  is  in 

motion.      Commend  me  to  the  Senate,  and  to ,     O 

God  !      (He  goes  out.) 


LXX.     THE  CHARM  OF  WOMAN. 


ANNA, 

ADA, 

LAURA, 

DORA, 

IDA, 

CLARA 

EVA, 

Anna.    'Tis  clear,  my  friends,  that  woman  has  no  hope 
If  Beauty  is  denied  ;  —  all  other  charms, 
Wealth,  learning,  grace  and  all  domestic  skill 
Are  worthless,  if  the  form  and  face  but  lack 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  163 

That  something  indescribal)le,  which  men 
Call  Beauty,  and  bow  down  to  with  a  worship, 
More  sincere  than  usually  is  paid 
To  Him  who  beauty  gives. 

Dora.     No  one  denies  that  Beauty  has  some  power, 
And  often  catches  those  who  trust  the  eye, 
And  disregard  the  judgment ;  but,  no  charm 
Attracts  mankind,  and  fastens  them  so  sure 
As  Wealth.     The  needy  beauty  long  may  wait, 
While  one  almost  deformed  may  captivate, 
And  bear  away  the  young  and  fair,  if  Wealth 
Has  gilded  o'er  the  unlucky  blemishes, 
Tiiat  stand  'twixt  her  and  beauty. 

Eca.     I  confess  the  charm  of  Beauty,  and  the  power, 
Of  Wealth  ;  but  what  are  these  without  a  mind 
With  Learning  stocked.  Beauty,  with  Wealth  combined, 
Is  but  a  marble  statue,  gilded  o'er, 
And  destitute  of  life,  the  intelligence. 
That,  whether  stolen  or  not,  came  down   from  heaven. 
Beauty  can  only  charm  the  eye  of  fools, 
And  Wealth  can  only  catch  tlie  miserly  ; 
But  learning  in  the  fair  secures  to  her 
The  homage  of  the  soul,  and  well  atones 
For  superficial  cliarms  that  pass  away. 

Affa,.     The  worth  of  Knowledge  all  men  will  confess, 
But  learned  women  are  a  source  of  dread, 
And  rarely  catch  a  husband  ;  while  the  maid. 
Who  only  understands  the  useful  art 
Of  Housewifery,  the  art  of  making  home 
A  place  of  comfort,  neatness,  order,  thrift. 
Is  sure  to  find  a  mate,  and,  what  is  more, 
To  keep  him  long.     Beauty,  with  Housewifery 
Becomes  slip-shod,  and  Wealth  too  often  trusts 
The  house  to  menials.     Learned  women,  too. 
Forever  at  the  book,  all  household  care 
Neglect,  and  slatterns  grow  so  oft,  that  men. 
In  search  of  wives,  the  stockings  blue  avoid- 

Ida.     The  charm  of  Beauty  I  shall  ne'er  deny, 
And  that  of  Wealth  must  ever  be  allowed  ; 
Learning  has  also  charms  that  all  must  own, 
While  Housewifery  must  still  essential  be 


164 

To  a  happy  home ;  —  but  Beauty  without  Grace 

Will  soon  disgust ;  Wealth  without  Manners  turns 

To  dross,  and  Learning,  oft  unneat,  without 

The  aid  of  Dress  must  fail  to  please.     And  who 

Knows  not  that  Housewifery  too  oft  degrades 

The  wife  to  the  drudge,  and  renders  her  unfit 

To  live  out  of  the  kitclien.     Manners  make  tlie  man, 

And  woman  too  ;  and,  destitute  of  Grace, 

And  graceful  manners,  no  one  can  sustain 

llespected  rank  in  good  society. 

Laura.     The  need  of  Manners  and  of  Grace  to  all, 
Who  seek  to  gain  the  esteem  of  man,  must  be 
Confessed ;  but,  after  all,  't  is  but  the  dress 
Of  other  charms,  whose  power  it  may  assist, 
But  not  supply.     There  is  one  charm  that  forms 
The  basis  of  all  others,  without  which 
No  Union  can  be  safe,  no  happiness 
Secure.     Virtue  alone  can  Beauty  make 
Of  any  worth  ;  and,  without  Virtue,  Wealth 
Is  not  esteemed.     So  Learning,  unrestrained 
By  virtuous  thought,  is  but  for  mischief  armed. 
Good  Housewifery,  apart  from  Virtue,  delves 
In  vain ;  and  all  the  Grace  and  Maimers, 
That  adorn  the  vicious  are  a  lure  to  catch 
And  to  destroy.     Against  the  charms  you  name 
Exist  objections  ;  but,  to  Virtue  none 
Can  well  be  made,  and  all  men  will  confess 
That  Woman,  without  virtue,  can  not  bless. 

Clara.     I  would  not  seem  a  judge  between  my  friends 
And  yet  it  seems  to  me  that  all  are  right, 
And  all  are  wrong  ;  for,  in  the  character 
Of  perfect  woman,  every  charm  you  name 
Is  necessary,  and  no  one  alone 
Can  stand.     'Tis  true  that  Beauty,  from  the  first, 
Has  held  a  sway  unequalled,  and  all  men. 
Of  every  age  and  clime,  have  bowed  them  down, 
And  worshipped  her  ;  but  Beauty  is  so  frail 
She  hardly  is  possessed  ere  she  decays. 
And  then  neglected  pines  in  vain  regret 
Of  what  can  ne'er  return.     'T  is  true  that  Wealth, 
If  well  employed,  is  not  to  be  despised, 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  IGO 

Fxjt  many  ills  arise  from  poverty. 

Embittering  lile,  and  clouding  every  scene. 

But  Wealth  is  transient  too,  and  oft  destroys 

The  peace  to  which  it  shoidd  administer. 

'T  is  true  that  Learning  gives  a  goodly  charm 

To  female  worth,  when  it  is  meekly  worn, 

But  when  displayed,  as  savages  display, 

The  gaudy  trinkets,  which  but  few  obtain. 

The  female  pedant  fills  men  with  disgust. 

'T  is  true  that  Home  must  lose  one  half  its  charms 

When  neatness,  order,  management  and  thrift 

Are  absent ;  but,  all  these  administer 

To  the  animal  wants,  and  can  not  feed  the  mind. 

'T  is  true  that  Manners  give  a  Grace  and  charm 

To  social  intercourse,  but  they  are  oft 

So  artificial,  when  a  study  made, 

That  they  lose  all  their  influence,  and  rough 

But  natural  manners  are  preferred,  because 

The  simple  and  sincere  five  nearest  truth. 

'T  is  true  that  Virtue  is  the  only  sure 

And  lasting  element  of  character, 

But  it  is  also  true,  that  Beauty  lends 

A  charm  to  Virtue  ;  Wealth  a  jewel  is 

On  Virtue's  brow,  and  Learning  that  confers 

Intelligence  on  Virtue,  furnishes 

A  light  to  walk  by  and  a  law  to  guide. 

A  virtuous  Home,  ill  managed,  may  become 

Intolerable  ;  and  when  Virtue  grows 

Morose,  unmannerly,  'tis  not  allowed 

A  decent  rank  amongst  the  elements 

That  should  the  perfect  character  compose. 

Therefore,  my  friends,  I  said  you  all  are  right, 
As  far  as  you  go,  but  all  are  wrong  to  think 
That  any  excellence  alone  can  stand, 
When  each  upon  the  others  rests,  and  all 
Are  bound  together  by  affinities. 
That  render  separation  almost  death. 
May  we  in  youth  lliese  various  charms  combine, 
And  say,  at  last,  —  this  character  is  mine. 


M«i. 


166 


LXXI.     THE  POET  IN  SEARCH  OF  A 
PATRON. 

CRACK,  the  Foet. 

PUSH,  DRIVER,  SCRAMBLE,  SPRING,  BANKS,  JlVe  Uve   YauJcceS, 

Crack.  Sad  times,  when  a  poem  like  mine  must  go  a 
begging.  No  pubiishtjr  would  touch  it,  and  now  that  I 
have  printed  it  at  my  own  risk,  no  man  will  buy  it.  This 
nation  is  so  absorbed  in  speculations  and  inventions,  that 
it  has  no  time  to  spare  for  any  thing  else.  But  there 
comes  a  yankee,  in  a  hurry,  as  they  always  are.  I  will 
cross  his  path,  and  try  to  sell  him  a  book.  {As  Push  at- 
tempts to  pass,  Crack  calls  out)  How  do  you  do,  Sn-  ? 

Push.  What  is  that  to  you  ?  Do  you  want  one  of  my 
Washing-machines  ?  Prime,  first  rate,  cheap,  too,  as  dnt ; 
—  wasii  without  soap  or  labor,  wear  and  tear,  or  — 

Crack.  Or  water,  I'll  be  bound.  But  look  here,  my 
friend,  here  is  my  new  poem,  which  I  should  like  to  sell 
you.  Only  one  dollar.  An  epic,  equal  to  Homer,  all  in 
hexameters. 

Fush.  What  is  it  about  ?  I  never  need  poetry.  There 
is  more  invention  and  poetry,  too,  in  one  of  my  washing 
machines  than  in  all  the  poetry  that  ever  was  written. 

Crack.     You  Imve  not  read  my  poem. 

Fush,  I  never  mean  too.  If  it  was  about  soap-suds, 
I  might  swap  for  a  copy  ;  but  I  suppose  it  is  about  some- 
thing more  frothy,  so,  stranger,  good  luck  to  you,  farewell, 
good-bye.      {Goes  out.)  >, 

Enter  Drioer. 

Crack.  {Stoppmg  him.)  Here,  friend,  a  word  with 
you. 

Dricer,  Let  it  be  a  monosyllable  then,  for  I  am  in  pur- 
suit of  a  fellow  that  has  dodged  me.  What  do  you  want  ? 

Crack.  Here  is  a  copy  of  my  new  poem  that  I  wish 
to  sell  you. 

Driver.     A  copy  of  what  ? 

CroAjk,  Of  my  new  poem.  Did  you  never  hear  of  my 
poem  ? 


fowle's  hund-red  dialogues.  167 

Drioer.     No,  nor  of  you,  either. 

Crack.     Friend, 

Dricer,  You  go  to  grass,  as  Nebuchadnezzar  did,  for 
you  must  be  as  crazy.  I  've  lost  two  minutes  on  your 
nonsense.     {He  goes  off.) 

Enter  Sicramhle,  in  haste. 

Crack.     Here  !    I  say  ! 

Scramble.     Well,  what  do  you  say ?      Speak,  I'm  off. 

Crack,     I've  something  of  importance  to  show  you. 

Scrarn.     What  is  it,  a  gold  mine? 

Crack,  Better  than  that,  an  intellectual  mine, — my 
poem. 

Scram.  You  get  out !  What  is  a  poem  good  for  ?  I 
never  read  any  one  but  "Now  I  lay  me",  and  that  was 
too  long.     I  would  n't  give  ninepence  for  a  ton  of  poems. 

Crack.  My  poem  has  the  soul  of  poetry  in  it.  All  who 
have  souls  recommend  it. 

Scram.  Let  'em  buy  it,  then.  I'll  tell  you  what, 
friend,  you  'd  better  sell  blacking  or  matches.  What  on 
airih  could  I  do  with  a  poem  ? 

Crack.     Read  it,  and  elevate  your  soul. 

Scram.  Elevate  a  pig's  tail.  The  only  way  to  elevate 
a  man's  soul  is  to  fill  his  purse.  That's  my  notion  about 
it.     So  good  bye  to  you.     {He  goes  out.) 

Enter  Spring,  walking  rapidly. 

Crack.     My  friend  I 

Spring.     Well,  who  are  you  ?     Speak  quick. 

Crack.     I  have  something  I  wish  to  say  to  you. 

Spring.     Well,  why  the  deuce  don't  you  say  it  ? 

Crack.     This  is  a  copy  of  my  poem. 

Spring.     What  do  I  care  for  that  ? 

Crack.'    I  wish  you  to  buy  it. 

Spring.  What  is  it  about,  what  is  it  good  for  ?  I  could  n'  t 
wrap  a  sausage  in  a  leaf  of  it. 

Crack.     It  is  about  —  my  subject  is  — 

Spring.  Poh,  what's  the  use  of  a  subject.  I  deal  in 
provisions,  and  would  n't  give  a  crossed  four-pence  ha'pen- 
ny for  a  barrel  of  poems,  salted  and  saltpetred. 

Crack.     My  poem  is  full  of  Attick  salt. 

^?ring.     Liverpool  is  better.     I'll  tell  you  what,  friend, 


168 

money  is    money,  and    provisions    are   cash,  but   pot-ras 


Crack.     Mine  is  food  for  the  mind. 

Spring.  Poh,  I  reacli  the  mind  through  the  stomach. 
Good  luck  to  you.  You'll  never  grow  fat  on  poetry.  {^He 
goes  out.) 

Crack.     Why  didn't  I  write  a  cook-book  ! 
Enter  BanJcs. 
Sir  —  er ! 

Banks.     Get  out  of  the  way. 

Crack.  Sir,  I  have  a  poem  here,  my  poem,  that  1 
should  like  to  show  you. 

Banks.     What  is  it  about,  Interest  or  Discount  ? 

Crack.     It  is  about  mind,  immortal  mind. 

Banks.  Then  it  is  below  par.  I'll  tell  you  what,  friend, 
fancy  stock  is  poor  stuff.  Stick  to  mortgages  or  real  es- 
tate. 

Crojck,     My  poem  is  on  the  sublime  subject  of 

Banks.  Air-castles,  and  nobody  buys  them.  My  friend, 
let  me  give  you  a  word  of  advice.  Sink  the  poet,  and  buy 
a  hand-cart  or  a  wood-saw  and  go  to  work.   {He  goes  out.) 

Crack.  (Holding  wp  his  book.)  '*  Is  this  a  dagger  that 
I  see  before  me  ?  "  {He  strikes  his  bosom  with  it,  and  goes 
out.) 


LXXII.    THE  KEHEARSAL. 

JOHN,  a  sly  rogue.  henry,  a  sober  boy. 

GEORGE,  a  small  boy.         thomas,  a  slender  boy. 
WILLIAM,  a  tall  boy.  joshua,  a  stout  boy. 

THE   MASTER. 

Scene  —  The  schoolroom  after  school,  the  boys  only  beitig 
present. 

Hen.  Now  leave  off  play,  and  let  us  proceed  to  busi- 
ness. To-morrow  is  exhibition  day,  and,  before  Master 
returns,  you  know,  we  must  rehearse  our  pieces,  and  be 
ready  to  recite  them  for  the  last  time  to  him. 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  169 

Wtn.  I  mo  /e  that  we  take  turns  in  speaking  our  pieces, 
while  the  rest  criticise. 

Josh.  Agreed,  and  the  youngest  shall  begin,  poorest 
first,  you  know,  while  the  people  are  coming  in.  So, 
Master  George,  make  your  bow,  and  go  ahead. 

Geo.  No,  no.  Let  us  do  the  thing  decently  and  in 
order.  I  move  that  every  one  considers  himself  as  some- 
body. 

IJios.  (Squeaking.)  Well,  is  not  every  body  some 
body? 

Geo.  I  mean,  some  one  of  the  company  that  is  to  be 
present  to-morrow,  and  then  we  shall  have  somethmg  like 
a.  decent  audience  to  speak  to.  I  will  be  Parson  Hum- 
drum, that  you  may  have  some  one  to  keep  you  in  awe. 

John.  Good.  I  '11  be  Squire  Nicks,  and  commit  you  all 
at  one  lesson,  if  you  are  uproarious.  Harry,  you  may  be 
Dr.  Vermifuge. 

Hen.  Done!  And  all  who  misbehave  shall  chew 
aloes  or  sip  Ehxir  Pro. 

Wm.  The  exhibition  will  be  dose  enough  without 
your  aloes.  I  shall  represent  Deacon  Grump,  for  he  is  a 
solemn  man,  and  a  terror  to  evil  doers.  Who  will  you 
be  Josh  ? 

Josh.  I  will  be  Farmer  Carrott,  and  woe  betide  all 
who  do  not  walk  in  a  straight  furrow.  Tom,  you  shall 
be  the  master,  the  honorable  particular,  perpendicular, 
Jeremiah  Sneak. 

All.     Good,  good ! 

Thos.  Give  me  a  switch,  then,  A  master  without  a 
rod,  is  like  a  rowdy  without  a  cigar ;  there  is  no  life  in 
him,  and  no  feeling  in  his  pupils. 

Wm..  Well,  now  to  business.  Take  your  seats  all, 
and  go  it,  George,  you  are  the  youngest. 

Geo.  Then,  let  me  come  last,  and  have  the  benefit  of 
your  sage  example. 

Thos.     Begin,  sir,  instanter,  or  I  shall  ferule  you 

Geo.  Well,  I  'm  not  set  about  it,  thongh  I  do  n't  know 
my  piece  at  all.  No  matter,  you  must  prompt  me.  Here 
it  goes.     {He  recites.) 

"My  name  is  Normal  on  the  Grammar  Hills." 

John,     Well,  what  is  it  on  other  hills  ? 

15 


170  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

Geo.  You  get  out  I  Now  be  still,  and  don't  interrupt 
me. 

"  My  name  is  Norma]  on  the  Grammar  Hills,  my  father 
feeds  his  iiock." 

Josh.  All  nonsense,  boy  ;  the  hills  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  name.  The  boy's  father  fed  his  flock  on  the 
hills. 

John.  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  sheep,  then,  for 
none  but  sheep  con  Id  live  on  Grammar  hills. 

Wni.  Go  on,  Georgy,  don't  mind  the  hills.  Begin 
again,  and  take  a  fair  start. 

Geo.     *'  My  name  is  Normal  on  the  Grammar  Hills 
My  father  feeds  his  flock  of  sheep, 
A  frugal  swine." 

Thos.     There  must  be  some  mistake. 

.Tosh.     There  never  was  a  frugal  swine. 

Win.  (  Who  has  been  looking  in  the  book, )  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 
Hark  now,  and  hear  me  read  it. 

"  My  name  is  Norval ;  on  the  Grampian  Hills 
My  father  feeds  his  flock  ;  —  a  frugal  swain,"  &:c. 

There,  try  it  again,  Georgy,  now  you  have  cut  Gram- 
mar, and  got  your  father  out  of  the  sty. 

Geo.     Well  then  — 

"My  name  is  Norval.     On  the  Grampian  Hills 
My  fattier  feeds  his  flock.     A  frugal  svv^ain, 
Whose  only  care  was  to  enlarge  his  store," — 

Hen.     Young  man,  what  does  enlarging  a  store  mean? 

Gto.  BuikUnga  kitchen  end  to  it,  as  our  storekeeper 
did  last  spring. 

John.     Young  man,  let  me  ask 

Gto.  Well,  ask  and  welcome.  You  may  speak  your- 
self, if  you  want  any  more  speaking. 

llai.  Weil,  it  is  not  fair  to  interrupt  one  so,  if  he  doea 
forget  his  name  and  stumble  over  the  hills  into  a  pig-sty. 
Come,  Will,  now  give  us  a  taste  of  your  quality.  You 
are  the  tallest  weed  in  the  company. 

Josh.     Yes,  now  go  it  like  a  young  steer, 

Wm.     ( Speaking. )  — 

•'  You  'd  skerce  expect  one  of  my  age  " — 

Geo.     Young  man,  how  old  may  you  be  ? 

Thos.     Don't  interrupt  the  child,  it  isn't  fair.-   Now 


171 

my  little  fellow  begin  again,  and  they    shan't   interrupt 
you. 

Wm.     '•  You  'd  skerce  expect  one  of  my  age 
To  speak  in  public  on  the  stage, 

And  if  J  chance  to  fall" 

Joh7t.     You  must  not  lie. 

Geo.  No,  young  man,  it  is  naughty  to  lie.  You  must 
always  live  to  the  truth. 

Hen.     Parson,  it  is  too  bad  to  interrupt  him  so. 
Geo.     He  interrupted  me.     Come,  Deacon,  begin  again, 
as  near  the  end  as  you  can,  and  go  through  like  a  streak 
of  lightning. 

Wm.  I  '11  not  speak  another  word  if  -it  thunders.  Let 
Josh  try,  and  see  how  he  likes  it. 

Josh.     ( Standing  ivith  his  toes  turned  in. ) 

'•  It  must  be  so  " 

Thos.    No,  it  must  n't.  {He  rises,  and  turning  out  Joshua's 
toes,  says,)  — It  must  be  so. 
Josh.     Very  well,  — 

"It  must  be  so,  then 
Pluto,  thou  reasonest  well." 
John.    Young  man,  Pluto  was  the  god  of  the  infernal 
regions,  and  Plato  was  a  Grecian  philosopher.  Now,  which 
do  you  think  reasoned  best,  the  God  or  the  Philosopher? 
Josh.     The  God,  if  he  was  a  lawyer,  as  they  say  all  are 
down  there,  [pointing  doivnicard.)     Now  be  still,  and  let 
me  go  on. 

"  It  must  be  so  '"'  — 
Thos.     Not  unless  you  turn  out  your  toes. 
Josh.     Well  then,  {Turning  them  out,)  — if 
•'  It  must  be  so,  Plato  thou  reasonest  well 
Else  why  this  pleasing  hop," 
Wm.     Pleasing  what? 

Josh.     Hop,  don't  you  know  what  a  hop  is? 
Wm.     Yes,  but  the  word  is  hope. 

Josti.  No  it  is  n't.  Give  me  the  book.  {Jle  opens  it 
and  j)ointing  to  the  word,  says)  — there,  h-o-p,  does  n't  that 
spell  hop  ? 

Wm.  Yes.  {looking  on.)  Yes,  but  don't  you  see  some 
fellow  has  scratched  off  the  e.  John,  this  is  some  of  your 
mischief.     Go  on,  Farmer  Carrot. 


172 

Josh.  V  11  not  ho])  another  inch.  I  '11  tell  you  what ; 
we  have  only  five  minutes  left  hefore  the  master  returns, 
and  the  sooner  every  one  speaks  the  quicker,  as  Paddy 
said. 

Hen.  He  ordered  every  one  to  speak  his  piece  at  least 
once  before  he  returned,  and  now  for  it,  my  hearties,  let 
us  see  who  will  get  through  first. 

{All  six  begin  as  nearly  as  possible  together,  hurrying  on, 
ind  speaking  louder  and  loader,  to  drown  eaeh  others  voices. ) 
Geo.     "  My  name  is  Norval,  on  the  Gram}>ian  Hills 
"  My  father  feeds  his  flock,  a  frugal  swain, 
•'  Whose  only  care  was  to  enlarge  his  store 
**  And  keep  myself  his  youngest  son  at  home. 
'*  For  I  had  heard  of  battles,  and  I  longed 
*'  To  follow  to  the  field  some  warlike  lord,  &c. 
Thos.   (SqueaJd/ig.)   "My  voice  is  still  fur  war, 
Gods  I  can  a  Roman  senate  long  debate 
Which  of  the  two  to  choose,  slavery  or  death  ? 
Let  us  arise  at  once,  and  at  the  head 
Of  our  remaining  troops,  attack  the  foe,  — 
Break  through  the  thick  array  of  his  thronged 
Legions,  and  charge  home  upon  him."     &c. 
Josh.     '•  It  must  be  so.     Plato,  thou  reasonest  well, 
Else  why  this  pleasing  hop  —  hope,  this  fond  desire, 
This  longing  after  immortality. 
Why  starts  the  soul  back  on  herself, 
And  shudders  at  destruction.     'T  is  the  divinity 
That  stirs  within  us,  'tis  Heaven  itself, 
That  points  out  an  hereafter,  and  intimates 

Eternity  to  man." 
He?i.     "  Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,  I  come 
To  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him,    .The  evil 
That  men  do  lives  after  them,  the  good 
Is  oft  interred  with  their  bones  :  so  let 
It  be  with  CiBsar.     Briitns  hath  told  you 
Ctesar  was  ambitious  ;  if  it  were  so. 
It  was  a  grievous  fault,  and  grievously 
Hath  Caesar  answered  it." 
Win.      "You  'd  scarce  expect  one  of  my  age 
"To  speak  in  public  on  the  stage, 
"  And  should  I  chance  to  fall  below 


173 

■"  Demosthenes  or  Cicero, 
"Don't  view  me  witli  a  cricket's  eye, 
•'  But  pass  my  imperfections  by. 
**  Tall  oaks  from  little  fountains  groWy 
*' Large  streams  from  little  acorns ^ow?,"  &c. 
Joh7i.  "  To  be  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question ; 

Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 
Or,  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 
And,  by  opposing,  end  them.     To  die  —  to  sleep 
No  more ;  and  by  a  sleep,  to  say  we  end 
The  heartache,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to."  &c. 
(  When  each  has  s'poken  about  six  lines,  the  Master  sudden' 
ly  enters,  and  all  instantly  stop. ) 

Master.     Well,  boys,  have  you  finished  your  rehearsal  ? 
You  seem  to  be  doing  it  at  wholesale. 
Hen.     Pretty  much,  sir. 
Master.     What  have  you  selected,  Henry  ? 
Hen.     Anthony's  Speech,  sir,  on  the  death  of  Caesar. 
Master.     Well,    don't    kiU   it,    as    Brutus   did    Caisar. 
What  do  you  choose,  William  ? 

Wm.     "  You  'd  scarce  expect  one  of  my  age." 
Master.     I  hardly  should  expect  it,  1  confess.     What  is 
your  piece,  Joshua? 

JoiJi.     "  It  must  be  so." 

Master.  If  it  must,  you  must  make  the  best  of  it. 
Well  Thomas,  what  do  you  give  us  ? 

Thos.     {Scjueaking .)     "  My  voice  is  still  for  war." 
Master.     It  would  do  better  for  piping  times  of  peace» 
but  no  matter.     What  have  you,  John  ? 
John.     "To  be,  or  not  to  be,"  sir. 

Master.  Well,  make  up  your  mind  immediately,  for 
we  have  no  time  for  hesitation.  What  do  you  propose, 
(George  ? 

Geo.     My  name  is  Nor  —  ,  Nor  — ..  Nor  — - 
Master,     Well,  gnaio  away,   till  you  master  it      Y(*\i 
may  go  and  study  your  pieces  now,  and,  thi»  ai^Btno^    , 
I  will  hear  you  recite  them. 


15» 


174 


LXXIII.     THE  BllOKEN  CHAIN, 

"or,  let  by-gones  be  by-gones." 

squire    dust,    (with    a    family    tree    before    him,)    an© 
farmer  oldbuck. 

Dust.  (Alone.)  What  would  I  give  if  I  could  supply 
the  lost  branch  in  my  family  tree.  I  can  go  up  to  Ichabod 
Dust  of  Littleton,  who  married  Mehitable  Weakly  of  the 
Slenderpools,  and  I  can  descend  from  the  Original  Dust  to 
Benajah,  who  was  slain  at  Deerfield,  but  there  a  link  in 
the  chain  is  lost,  and  all  my  industry  and  research  can 
not  connect  Benajah  with  Ichabod.  O,  here  comes  neigh- 
bor Oldbuck,  he  is  remotely  related,  and  perhaps,  can  help 
me.  {Enter  Oldbuck.)  How  are  you,  Mr  Oldbuck?  I 
am  in  trouble,  and  want  a  little  of  your  assistance.  My 
family  tree  has  a  stump  in  it  that  I  can  not  get  over. 
What  shall  I  do  with  it  ? 

Oldbuck.  Burn  it,  that's  the  way  I  do ;  or  root  it  out, 
if  it  is  decayed. 

Dust.  You  do  n't  understand  me.  The  stump  is  in 
my  family  tree,  and  not  in  my  field. 

Oldbuck.  It  is  all  one.  Saw  it  off,  and  graft  it,  if  there 
if  any  life  in  it,  that 's  the  way  I  treat  my  fruit  trees. 

Dust.  Poh,  })oh.  You  see,  I  can  trace  my  pedigree 
up  to  my  great  grandfather,  and  can't  get  a  stej)  farther. 

Oldbuck.  A  step-father,  what  do  you  want  of  a  step- 
father? 

Dust.  Pshaw,  I  can't  find  out  who  the  father  of  my 
great  grandfather  was. 

Oldbuck,  Well,  what  of  that?  You  know  he  had 
one. 

Dust.     To  be  sure  I  do. 

Oldbuck.  Well,  what  do  you  want  more?  If  you  had 
no  great  great  grandfather,  it  might  be  a  circumstance 
worth  looking  up. 

Dust.  You  are  enough  to  provoke  a  saint.  I  have 
spent  days  and  months  in  trying  to  supply  the  link  in  my 
family  chain,  and  — 


bOWLc's    HUNDRED    DIALOGUES,  175 

Oldbutk.  I  '11  tell  you  what,  friend  Dust,  this  looking 
up  old  ancestors  who  never  did  enough  good  or  evil  to 
save  their  names  from  ohlivion,  is  like  looking  up  old  debts 
that  are  outlawed  ;  the  time  spent  in  the  search  may  be 
better  employed.  You  may  earn  ten  dollars  for  one  you 
will  get  \^  that  way. 

Du&t.  Yes,  I  may  earn  ten  dollars,  but  I  can't  earn 
ten  grandfathers. 

Oldbuck.  True,  you  can  not,  but  you  can  prevent 
yourself  from  becoming  useless  and  unknown  to  your 
great  grandchildren.     You  have  a  son,  friend  Dust. 

Dust.     Yes,  I  have,  I  am  sorry  to  say. 

Oldbuck.     He  has  given  you  trouble. 

Dust,     Well,  I  know  it,  what  then  ? 

Oldbuck.  He  is  to  hand  down  your  name,  Dust  to  Dust, 
as  the  burial  service  has  it. 

Dust.  Well,  what  of  that  ?  I  know  he  is  a  bad  fel- 
low, and  does  not  promise  much,  but  you  need  not  twit 
me  of  it. 

Oldbuck.  You  have  neglected  him.  l^  you  had  bestowed 
half  as  much  time  upon  him  as  you  have  wasted  on  that 
old  stump  of  an  ancestor,  he  might  have  honored  the 
family,  and  been  a  blessing  to  the  community,  though,  as 
it  is,  there  is  a  certain  kiud  of  elevation  {jrutting  his 
hand  under  his  ear,  ivhere  the  luilter  goes)  which  may  keep 
his  name  from  oblivion. 

Dust.  I  feel  obliged  to  you  for  your  sympathy,  and 
plainness  of  speech. 

Oldbuck.  {Solemnly.)  Friend  Dust,  I  do  not  wish  to 
hurt  your  feelings,  but  you  have  provoked  me  to  tell  you 
a  truth,  which  every  one  else  knows,  — that  your  neglect 
of  your  son  has  brought  him  to  the  brink  of  ruin.  You 
can  not  help  your  great  grandfather,  nor  can  he  help  you  ; 
but  you  can  help,  and  may  yet  save  your  boy.  Leave 
your  great  grandfather  with  the  worms  that  perish,  and 
save  your  son  from  that  worm  which  never  dieth. 

Dust.  Well,  well.  I  am  sure  I  did  not  expect  to  have 
the  lost  link  supplied  in  this  way  ;  but,  really,  friend  Old- 
buck,  there  may  be  truth  in  what  you  say,  and,  instead  of 
delving  among  the  bones  of  my  ancestors,  I  will  look  a 
hltle  to  my  successors. 


17G  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

Oldbuck.  Do  so,  and,  if  it  is  important  that  yon  should 
know  who  your  great  grandfather  was,  yon  have  only  to 
be  patient  a  few  years,  and  Death,  who,  no  doubt,  has 
had  the  pleasure  of  his  acquaintance,  will  introduce  you 
to  him. 


LXXiy.    THE  NEWSMONGER. 

PETER  BRiGGS,  the  Neivsmonger .      messrs.  candid  and  play- 
ton,  his  neighbors. 

Peter.  Good  morning,  young  gentlemen,  have  you 
heard  the  news  from  Turkey  ?  Great  news,  great 
news. 

Mr.  C.  What  is  it  Peter  ?  I  saw  nothing  in  the  morn- 
ing papers. 

Peter.  It  has  not  yet  been  published.  The  papers  are 
behind  the  times. 

Mr.  P.     Pray  let  us  know  it,  then. 

Peter.  What  will  you  give  ?  Come,  let  us  see  v^hat 
value  now  you  set  on  knowledge,  knowledge  tViat  is 
knowledge. 

Mr.  (J.  I  never  buy  a  pig  in  a  bag,  Peter.  Let  us 
hear  the  news,  and  we  will  pay  the  worth  of  it. 

Peter.  Well,*  Baron  Von  Dunderdrum  informs  me  by 
letter,  that  after  a  hard  fought  battle,  the  Dutch  have 
taken  Holland. 

Mr.  P.  You  don't  say  so  !  What  will  the  wretched 
Hollanders  do  ? 

Peter.  He  said  they  had  all  emigrated  to  the  Nether- 
lands. 

Mr.  P      Let  us  see  the  letter,  Peter. 

Peter.  No,  'tis  strictly  confidential,  and  must  not  be 
exposed. 

Mr.  C.     In  what  language  is  it  written  ?  tell  us  that. 

Peter.     In  Arabic,  the  language  of  those  parts 

Mr.  C.  As  we  do  not  know  Arabic,  there  will  be  no 
exposure. 


DIALOGUES.  177 

Peter.  I  have  a  rule,  and  can  not  make  exception, 
even  for  you. 

Mr.  P.     Have  you  any  other  news  ? 

Peter.  Yes,  I  have  a  letter  from  the  Dragon-man  of 
the  Spanish  ambassador  at  the  Persian  city  of  Moscow, 
which  assures  me  that  the  Sultan  has  formed  a  league 
with  the  Grand  Turk  to  take  Constantinople. 

Mr.  a     No  I    'Tis  dreadful.     Is  that  in  Arabic  too  ? 

Peter.  No,  that's  in  Sanscrit.  But  I  must  go  and 
translate  the  letters  for  the  daily  press.  (He  throws  the 
letters  into  his  hat,  and  inputting  it  on  they  fall  to  the  ground 
behind  hi^n.)  Good  bye,  bless  me  how  I  have  tarried. 
{He  goes  out. ) 

Mr.  C.     (Picking  up  the  letters.)     See,  he  has  dropped 
his  correspondence.     Now,  for  a  good  feast.     Here  is  the 
Arabic  letter.     Hear  it.     (Reads.) 
Mr.  Peter  Briggs, 

Sir  —  Enclosed  is  your  bill  for  that  load  of  hay,  and  if 
not  immediately  paid,  I  shall  put  you  to  some  trouble. 
Yours,  Sam.  Saltmarsh. 

Mr.  P.  I  don't  wonder  Peter  thought  the  Dutch  had 
taken  Holland.  But  let  us  hear  the  Sanscrit  letter  from 
the  Dragon-man. 

Mr.  a     (Reads:)  , 

Sir  —  Your  Cow  has  been  picked  up  in  the  road,  and 
you  will  find  her  in  the  pound.     Fees,  one  dollar. 

George  Lock,  Pound  Keeper. 

Mr.  P.  The  Sanscrit  sounds  more  like  English  than 
the  pound  looks  like  Constantinople.  But  here  comes 
Peter  in  search  of  his  letters. 

(Enter  Peter,  in  haste.) 

Peter.  Young  men,  have  you  seen  any  thing  of  my 
letters  ? 

Mr.  C.  (Handing  them  to  Peter.)  We  found  them  on 
the  ground,  after  you  left  us. 

Peter.     You  have  not  opened  them  of  course. 

Mr.  C.  It  would  have  been  in  vain,  for  we  are  ignor* 
ant  of  Arabic  and  Sanscrit    both. 

Peter.  Not  one  person  in  a  thousand  would  have  been 
so  honorable      Good  bye  once  more.      (He  goes  out.) 


178 


FOWLE  S    HUNDRED    DIALOGUES. 


Mr.  p.  Well,  he  has  got  us  now,  as  surely  as  the 
Dutch  have  taken  Holland. 

Mr.  C.  Yes,  he  has  beaten  the  Dutch.  He  knows 
that  we  are  guilty,  and  I'm  sure  1  feel  so.  1  can  not  but 
smile  at  his  aiFectation  of  superior  knowledge,  but  we  had 
no  right  to  open  his  letters,  knowing  they  were  his. 

Mr.  P.  They  must  be  Arabic  and  Sanscrit  still.  We 
have  convicted  him  of  vanity,  but  we  stand  self-condennied 
of  base  dishonesty.  Let  us  atone  by  paying  for  the  load 
of  hay,  and  taking  from  the  pound  tlie  poor  fool's  cow. 

Mr.  C.  It  is  the  only  retreat  left  to  us.  You  shall 
write  him  a  letter  in  Sanscrit  as  from  the  Dragoman, 
enclosing  the  receipt  for  the  pound-keeper's  fee,  and  I  will 
write  in  Arabic  as  from  the  Baron  Dunderdrum,  enclosing 
a  receipt  for  the  load  of  hay.  While  we  wipe  out  our 
faults,  we  may  correct  his  folly.  Come,  let  us  lose  no 
time.  If  he  don't  understand  the  Sanscrit,  he  will  the 
receipts. 


LXXV.     CORPORAL   PUNISHMENT. 

MASTER  HICKORY  AND  HIS  PUPJL,  JOHN  SMITH. 

[Part  of  this  dialogue  is  attributed  to  Wm.  Jerdan,  but  an  addition 
has  been  made  in  order  to  exhibit  more  fully  the  danger  of  requiring 
concessions  and  acknowledgements  from  penitents,  whose  pride  or 
conscience  revolts  at  the  humiliation.] 

Master  H.     John  Smith  ! 

John.     Here,  sir. 

Mr.  H.  Come  from  your  *  here '  hither.  {John  moves 
sloivly  and  reluctantly  up  to  the  desk.)  John  Smith,  you 
have  been  guilty  of  throwing  stones,  which  I  forbade. 
{John  hangs  his  head  disconsolately.)  John  Smith,  it  is  of 
no  use  to  look  sorrowful  now,  you  should  have  thought 
of  sorrow  before  you  committed  the  offence,  {reaching 
down  the  can£.)  You  are  aware,  John  Smith,  that  those 
who  do  evil  must  be  punished ;  and  you,  John,  must, 
therefore  be  punished.     Is  it  not  so  ? 


179 

J.     Oh,  sir,  I  will  never  do  so  again, 

Mr.  H.  I  hope  you  will  not,  John  ;  bnt,  as  you  forgot 
the  prohibition  when  left  to  your  unassisted  memory,  the 
renie«ibrance  of  the  smart  now  to  be  administered  will 
be  the  more  likely  to  prevent  a  relapse  in  future.  Hold 
out  your  hand  ?     ( Whack.) 

J.     Oh,  sir  I  oh,  sir  !   I  will  never  do  so  again. 

Mr.  H.  I  hope  not ;  hold  out  your  hand  again. 
{Whack,  and  a  screech  from  John.)  Now,  John,  you 
begin  to  perceive  the  consequence  of  disobedience. 

J.     Oh,  yes,  sir,  —  enough,  sir,  enough,  sir  I 

Mr.  II.  By  no  means,  John.  You  are  somewhat  con- 
vinced of  your  error,  but  yet  not  sensible  of  the  justice  of 
your  punishment,  and  the  quantum  due  to  you.  Hold 
out  your  other  hand.      (  Whack  and  a  scream.) 

J.     Mercy,  sir,  I  will  never —  (Blubb( ring .) 

Mr.  H.  It  is  all  for  your  good,  John  ;  hold  out  your 
left  hand  again.  Even  handed  justice  1  Why  don't  you 
do  as  you  are  bid,  sir,  eh  ?     {A  slash  across  the  shoulders.) 

J.     Oh,  oh  ! 

Mr.  H.  That's  a  good  boy  I  ( Whack  on  iJie  hand 
again.)  That's  a  good  boy!  (Whack.)  Now,  John, 
you  feel  that  it  is  all  for  your  good  ? 

J.     Oh,  no,  sir,  —  oh  no  !     It  is  very  bad,  very  sore. 
.  Mr.  H.     Dear  me^  John.     Hold  out  again,  sir.     1  must 
convince  you  that  it  is  justice,  and  all  for  your  good.      (^1 
rain  of  strijies  on  Jtand  and  back,  John  bcUowtng   all  the 
while. )You.  must  feel  that  it  is  for  your  good,  my  l)oy. 

/     Oh,  yes,  sir, — oh,  yes-s-s-s-s. 

Mr.  H,     That's  a  good  lad  ;  you're  right  again. 

/.     It  is  all  for  my  good,  sir  ;  it  is  all  for  my  good. 

Mr.  H.  Indeed  it  is,  my  dear.  There !  —  Whack, 
ichack. )  Now  thank  me,  John.  {John  hesitates  —  Whatk, 
whack. ) 

/.  Oh,  oh  I  Thank  you,  sir;  thank  you  very  much. 
I  will  never  do  so  again;  thank  you,  sir.  Oh,  sir, 
tha-a-a-nks. 

Mr.  H.  That's  a  dear  good  boy.  Now  you  may  go  to 
your  place,  and  sit  down  and  cry  as  much  as  you  wish, 
but  without  making  any  noise.  And  then  you  must  learn 
your  les-on      Aiid,  John,  you  will  not  forget  my  orders 


180  fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  • 

again.  You  will  be  grateful  for  the  infliction  I  have 
bestowed  upon  you.  You  will  feel  that  justice  is  a  great 
and  certain  principle.  You  may  see,  also,  how  much 
your  companions  may  be  benefited  by  your  example. 
Go  and  sit  down ;  there's  a  good  boy,  John.  I  might 
have  punished  you  more  severely  than  I  have  done,  — 
you  know  that,  John?     {Holds  up  the  cane.) 

J.     Oh,  yes,  sir. 

Mr.  II.  You  thank  me  sincerely  for  what  I  have 
given  you  ?     {Holding  up  the  cane.) 

J.     Oh,  yes,  sir,  —  no,  sir,  —  I  don't  know,  sir. 

Mr.  II.  You  don't  know,  hey !  ( Whack,  whack !) 
I'll  teach  you.  Take  that.  You  don't  know  whether 
you  thank  me,  hey?     {Whack,  whack!) 

J.     Oh,  yes,  sir,  I  do  I  I  do  I 

Mr.  H.     Do  what  ? 

/.     Do  know,  sir. 

Mr.  H     Do  know  what? 

J.  Oh,  sir,  my  Sunday  school  teacher  tells  me  never  to 
lie,  and  you  wish  me  to  say  I  thank  you,  when 

Mr.  H     When  what?     Speak  out,  sir.     When  what? 

/.     When  I  don't,  I  can't,  I  won't,  if  you  kill  me. 

ikfr.  H.  You  have  lied,  then,  John ;  for  you  told  me 
just  now  that  you  did  thank  me.  I  must  punish  you  for 
lying  also.     {Bxiising  his  cane.) 

J.     O,  sir,  I  was  so  frightened  I  said  anything,  sir. 

Mr.  H.     John,  do  you  know  how  sinful  it  is  to  lie? 

/.  O,  yes,  sir,  my  Sabbath  School  teacher  tells  me 
it  is. 

Mr.  H.  Then,  John,  you  must  be  whipped  till  you  are 
sensible  of  the  awful  nature  of  your  sin.  Take  off  your 
coat,  John,  you  will  thank  rae  one  of  these  days  for  my 
care  of  you,  John. 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  181 

LXXVI.    MANNERS  MAKE  THE  MAN. 

MR.  COMPLACENT  AND  MRS.  TRUELOVE. 

Mrs.  T.  Are  you  the  Principal  of  the  United  States 
Manners  Reform  High  School  ? 

Mr.  G.  I  sustain  that  interesting  relation,  madam. 
May  I  be  permitted  to  know  to  whom  I  owe  the  honor  of 
the'inquiry,  which  I  have  just  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

Mrs.  T.  That  will  be  of  little  consequence  to  you,  sir, 
until  I  have  made  a  few  more  inquiries.  Allow  me  to 
ask  what  branches  you  propose  to  teach. 

Mr.  C.  I  shall  at  least  enjoy  the  happiness,  madam, 
of  worshiping  the  unknown  divinity.  The  branch,  mad- 
am, to  which  my  attention  will  be  solely  and  exclusively, 
and,  let  me  add,  conscientiously  devoted,  is  deportment. 
This  has  been  the  study  of  my  life,  and,  as  a  prince  once 
said,  this  is  my  birthright,  the  poeta  nascitur  of  my  being. 
( Smiling  complacently. ) 

Mrs.  T.  May  I  inquire  on  what  system  of  deportment 
your  lessons  are  based  ? 

Mr.  C.  I  use  no  text  books,  madam,  preferring,  if  you 
will  excuse  the  egotism  to  which  your  question  drives,  — 
nay,  I  should  rather  say,  invites  me,  the  egotism  of  re- 
marking, that  I  propose  to  teach  deportment  from  a  living 
text  book,  which,  if  it  is  not  unbecoming,  I  trust  it  will 
be  unnecessary  to  name  with  more  particularity.  I  have 
spent  my  hfe,  madam,  in  the  study  of  deportment,  fre- 
quenting the  best  company  ;  appearing  at  all  places  of 
fashionable  resort ;  attired  always  in  the  latest  style,  and 
studying  diligently  the  difficult  art  of  killing  time.  De- 
portment is  the  whole  of  education. 

Mrs.  T.  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  importance  of 
good  manners,  sir,  but  I  have  been  accustomed  to  considei 
morals  of  more  importance,  and  I  am  sorry  to  say,  that 
the  neglect  of  manners  and  morals  too,  in  most  of  our 
schools,  indicates  that  some  importance  is  attached  by  the 
world  to  intellectual  pursuits,  also. 

Mr.  C.     A  mistake,  madam,  a  serious  mistake,  I  will 

16 


iftS  FOWLE'S   HUNDRED    DIALOGUES. 

not  say  {boiving)  on  the  part  of  the  lady  who  confers  a 
charm  and  distinction  on  this  interview,  but  on  the  })art 
of  the  world,  which  has  long  wandered  from  the  true  the 
ory  of  education.  We  are  not,  and  by  using  the  pronoun 
ive,  of  course  I  cannot  offend  one  whom  nature  and  art 
have  made  an  exception  to  my  rule ;  yes,  we  are  not 
what  we  used  to  be  in  point  of  deportment. 

Mrs.  T.  Without  excepting  more  than  one  of  the 
present  company,  T  may  be  allowed  to  say  that  I  am  not 
aware  that  the  general  manners  have  deteriorated. 

Mr.  C.  Always  begging  pardon  for  any  apparent  dif- 
ference of  sentiment,  I  would  venture  to  say,  tliat  tlie 
present  race  has  sadly  degenerated,  a  levelling  age  being- 
very  unfavorable  to  deportment.  It  developes  vulgarity, 
and  true  deportment  is  so  rare  a  virtue,  that,  as  I  have 
passed,  I  have  often  heard  gentlemen  and  ladies  do  me 
the  honor  to  inquire  of  each  other.  Who  can  he  be?  How 
happens  it  that  I  do  not  know  him  ? 

Mrs.  T,  I  trust  that  the  race  of  gentlemen  and  ladies 
will  not  become  extinct  with  the  present  —  generation. 

Mr.  G.  Our  number  is  small,  madam,  but  it  must  be 
perpetuated.  All  that  can  be  acquired  I  shall  endeavor 
to  impart ;  but,  madam,  you  must  have  discovered  that 
there  are  things,  which  may  be  worn,  by  those  whom  na- 
ture clothes,  but  which  can  not  be  imparted  or  acquired. 

Mrs.  T.  T  trust  your  efforts  will  not  fail  to  stop  the 
downward  course  of  manners. 

Mr.  G.  Woman,  lovely  woman,  may  be  allowed  to 
fear  ;  but,  when  example  is  to  be  the  precept,  faihirc  be- 
comes impossible.     Example,  madam,  is  omnipotent. 

Mrs.  T.  It  has  great  power  for  evil  as  well  as  uuod, 
and  if  the  world  are  wrong,  and  their  example  seen,  it  may 
be  difficult  for  one  or  two,  by  the  most  perfect  example,  to 
make  all  go  right  again. 

Mr.  G.  In  true  deportment  there's  a  perfect  charm, 
which  wins  the  soul  ere  it  is  well  aware  of  the  enchant- 
ment. Polish,  perfect  polish,  subdues  the  rude,  and  smooths 
the  rough  and  coarse,  as,  if  I  may  apply  the  remark  intlie 
present  case,  it  doth  refine,  assimilate,  and  charm 

Mrs.  1\     Sir! 

Mr.  G.     Yes,  madam,  you  can  not  but  have  felt  an  in- 


fowi.e's  hundred  dialogues.  183 

rtuence  passing  over,  and,  as  it  were,  compelling  you  lo 
harmonize  and  imitate,  and  even  aspire  to  equal  the 
model  1  may  not  refer  to  freely,  as  my  argument  requires. 
Excuse  me,  madam,  if  I  venture  on  the  bold  asseveration 
that  your  daughter,  under  the  influence  that  will  be  exerted 
here,  will  so  far  excel  her  by  whose  patronage  I  now  am 
honored,  that 

Mrs.  T.  You  mistake  me,  sir,  and  my  intention.  My 
daughter  is  not  yet  your  pupil,  and  may  I  be  excused  if  I 
declare,  that  she  can  never  be  subjected  to  any  system  of 
deportment,  from  which,  and  from  the  example  by  which 
it  is  taught,  modesty,  the  greatest  charm  of  manners,  is 
excluded.  I  am  sorry  you  have  lost  a  moment  of  your 
time. 

Mr.  C.  Excuse  me,  madam,  what  is  loss  to  me  may 
prove  a  gain  incalculable  unto  one  who  can  appreciate 
and  apply  it. 

Mrs.  T.  I  am  bound  to  thank  you  for  the  lesson, 
though  it  be  not  what  you  intended.      Good  morning,  sir, 

Mr.  C.  It  can  not  be  otherwise,  madam,  and  he  who 
gives,  will,  as  our  poet  says,  be  doubly  blessed.  I  wish 
you  a  good  morning.  [She  goes  out.)  What  can  she 
mean  by  my  excluding  modesty  ?  It  is  the  basis  of  de- 
portment, and  the  grace  that  I  have  practised  most,  and 
do  most  highly  prize.  She  surely  lacks  discernment  and 
excites  my  pity.  No  modesty  in  my  example !  I  fear 
there  is  too  much,  and  self-distrust  may  ruin  me.  {Looks 
in  the  mirror  adrninng  himself,  and  then  goes  out  affectedly.) 


LXXVII.    LIFE  INSURANCE. 

[Scene.     An  Insurance  Office.     Enter  an  unaccustomed  female. J 

Female.     Are  you  the  man  of  this  office.  Sir? 

Clerk.  {Seeing  a  paper  in  her  hand,  and  supposing  it 
io  be  a  subscription  paper  for  some  charitable  purpose.)  I  am 
a  man  only,  and  not  the  man. 

F.  Sir,  I  am  sorry  to  interrupt  you,  but  a  gentleman 
told  me  you  are  the  man  that  1  want. 


184  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

*  C.     I  shall  be  happy  to  listen  to  your  proposals. 

P.  If  you  are  the  man  for  me,  I  wish  to  say  a  few 
words  to  you. 

C.  [Smiling.)  We  do  not  transact  matrimony  here, 
ma'am,  and  it  is  not  leap  year,  but  I  will  hear  you,  if  you 
will  be  brief  and  to  the  point. 

F.  I  am  a  single  woman,  sir,  with  a  little  property 
and  without  a  relation  in  the  wide  world,  and  1  have  been 
reading  a  circular,  —  here  it  is,  —  which  was  issued  from 
this  office,  and  I  have  come  to  have  my  life  insured. 

C.  O,  is  that  all  ?  Then,  I  am  the  gentleman  to  at- 
tend to  you.     How  old  are  you,  madam? 

F.     ( Surprised. )     Sir  I 

C.     Your  age,  if  you  please,  —  miss. 

F.  Sir,  is  this  the  way  you  treat  aii  unprotected  fe- 
male ?     No  gentleman  would  ask  a  lady  her  age. 

C.  A  mere  matter  of  business,  madam,  it  is  necessary 
that  we  should  know  your  age,  or  we  cannot  determine 
the  rate.  But,  apart  from  your  age,  what  amount  do  you 
wish  insured? 

F.  Amount  I  I  wish  my  life  insured,  though  it  seems 
very  much  like  tempting  the  Lord,  in  whose  hand  our 
breath  is. 

C.  That  is  your  look  out,  madam.  We  can  do  nothing 
till  you  determine  what  amount  you  wish  to  insure. 

F.  Amount,  amount  I  What  has  the  amount  to  do 
with  it?  I  wish  to  have  my  Zz/e  insured,  for  our  Doctor 
tells  me  the  cholera  is  expected  again,  and  I  wish  to  feel 
safe. 

C.     To  whom  do  you  wish  to  make  the  policy  payable  ? 

F.  Policy,  policy  I  They  tell  me  it  is  good  policy  to 
insure  one's  life,  when  one  is  feeble  and  unprotected,  and 
without  a  relation  in  the  wide  world. 

C.  Yes,  madam,  but  the  debt  arising  from  your  demise 
must  be  paid  to  some  one. 

F.  I  don't  see  that  there  is  any  debt  about  it.  Death 
is  the  debt  of  natur,  to  be  sure,  for  "it  is  given  unto  all 
men  once  to  die,"  and  I  don't  see  how  you  insurers  get 
over  that  Scriptur! 

C.  Madam,  if  the  Office,  by  your  demise,  becomes  in- 
debted to  the  amount  of  the  policy,  to  whom  shall  the 
nmount  be  paid  ? 


fowle's  hundred  diat.ogues.  185 

F.  To  me,  to  be  sure,  if  any  thing  is  coming  from  the 
insurance. 

C.  You  will  not  be  here,  probably,  to  receive  any 
thing  after  your  death. 

P.  What  do  you  mean?  I  wish  to  have  my  life  in- 
sured, and  then,  if  your  insurance  is  good  for  any  thing, 
there  will  be  no  death  ai)out  it. 

C.  You  are  in  an  error,  madam.  We  do  not  insure 
against  death. 

F.  Then  what  do  you  call  it  life. insurance  for  ?  Pretty 
life  insurance,  if  a  person  can  die  after  it  is  made.  I  sus- 
pected it  was  all  humbug,  when  1  first  heerd  of  it. 

C     Let  me  explain,  madam. 

F.  Well,  Sir.  You  may  make  white  black,  and  black 
white,  but  if  you  insure  my  life  and  I  die,  you  cheat  me, 
and  I'll  prosecute  you  as  long  as  there  is  any  law  in  the 
land. 

G.  If  you  wish  to  be  insured  against  death,  you  must 
go  over  to  the  apothecary's  opposite,  and  he  will  sell  you 
a  bottle  of  The  Elixir  Vita3,  {amj  popular  medicine  may  be 
named,)  and  then,  if  nothing  happens,  you  will  live  forever. 

F.     That  is  what  I  want.     Where  is  the  apothecary's  ? 

C.  Just  across  the  street,  madam.  He  is  the  man  you 
want. 

F.  Good  morning,  sir,  you  had  better  take  your  sign 
down.     Life  Insurance  with  a  vengeance  I 

C.  Good  morning,  madam.  When  you  obtain  immor- 
tality, please  remember  that  I  put  you  in  the  way  to  ob- 
tain it. 


LXXVIII.    THE  REFORMED  WIFE. 

MRS.  IPHIGENIA  MYRTILLA    FLORETTA    TIP,  AND    MRS.  HOMESPUN. 

Mrs.  21  O  dear  I  I  suppose  I  am  to  be  bored  to  death 
with  one  of  my  husband's  relations.  Ah,  hum  I  She  is 
going  to  spend  a  week  with  us,  and,  as  husband  is  most 
of  the  day  at  his  store,  I  shall  have  the  supreme  felicity 


186 

of  entertaining  her.  I  wish  he  would  entertain  his  own 
reJatioiis,  and  take  her  down  to  the  store  with  him.  {En- 
ter Mm.  Homc'S2')un.)     Good  morning,  Mrs.  Homespun. 

Mrs.  H.  I  am  very  happy  to  see  thee,  for,  although  I 
have  not  had  the  pleasure  of  thy  acquaintance,  1  can  not 
but  love  one  who  is  dear  to  my  cousin. 

Mrs.  T.  {Aside.)  Altogether^too  warm,  I  must  give, 
her  tlie  pitch.  {To  Mrs.  H.)  My  husband '\s  always  hap- 
py to  see  his  friends. 

Mrs  H.  And  is  not  thee  happy  to  see  them  too  ?  I 
love  every  one  my  Barnabas  loves. 

Mrs.  T.  Such  simplicity  is  not  always  convenient  iu 
the  city,  where  fashion  and  custom  are  often  more  impe- 
rious than  affection,  and  often  supersede  the  common  du- 
ties, as  you  would  call  them.  It  is  impossible  for  a  lady, 
who  makes  any  pretensions  to  gentility,  to  pay  any  atten- 
tion to  her  husband  or  children,  to  say  nothing  of  his 
relations. 

Mrs.  II.  So  I  understand,  but  surely  thee  does  not  run 
into  such  an  unnatural  error.  I  find  my  chief  delight  in 
attending  to  the  education  of  my  children,  and  in  providing 
for  the  comfort  of  Barnabas. 

Mrs.  T.  I  let  tnij  Barnabas  take  care  of  himself;  and 
as  for  my  children,  I  hardly  see  them  once  in  a  week.  1 
can  not  always  recall  their  names.  It  is  as  much  as  I 
can  do  to  take  care  of  little  Platonetto. 

Mrs.  H.  Is  that  the  name  of  your  infant?  I  had  not 
heard  it  before. 

Mrs.  T.  No,  it  is  the  name  of  my  little  dog.  He  's 
the  dearest  creature  you  ever  laid  eyes  on  ;  and  his  face 
is  sometimes  so  thoughtful,  that  I  have  named  him  Plato- 
netto, after  the  philosopher  Plato. 

Mrs.  H.  And  thee  leaves  thy  infant  with  the  nurse, 
and  nurses  the  dog  thyself  I  I  like  little  animals,  and  al- 
ways treat  them  well,  but 

Mrs.  T.  You  need  not  finish  the  sentence.  I  never 
would  let  a  brat  send  me  to  bed  before  sunset,  and  drive 
me  up  before  sunrise.  I  could  aflwrd  to  be  broken  of  my 
rest  for  such  a  little  dear  as  Platonetto,  or  Plat,  as  we  call 
him,  but  I  desire  to  be  spared  the  trouble  of  quieting  a 
bawling  child. 


powle's  hundred  dialogues.  187 

M/'s.  H.  Perhaps  thee  does  not  love  to  rise  early  ,as  I 
do. 

Mrs.  T.  I  never  rise  till  noon,  and  always  take  the 
last  novel  to  bed  with  me. 

Mrs.  H.     Is  dinner  thy  first  meal? 

Mrs.  T.  O  no,  I  take  my  coffee  in  bed,  I  don't  know 
how  it  would  taste  in  any  other  place.  My  husband,  poor 
drudge,  gets  up  early  enough,  but  I  never  see  him  till  dhi- 
ner,  for  it  takes  me  from  noon  till  dinner  time  to  dress. 

Mrs.  H.     Do  thy  children  go  to  school  ? 
'Mrs.  T.     O  yes,  I  suppose  they  do,  for  Susy  has  the 
care  of  them,  and  they  have  an  excellent  teacher.  I  should 
make  fine  progress  if  I  had  to  look  after  them. 

Mrs.  H.  Friend  Myrtilla,  does  thee  make  good  progress 
by  neglecting  them  ? 

Mrs.  T.  I  find  time  to  attend  to  myself  and  to  my 
visitors.  It  is  impossible  to  receive  company  and  be  in- 
tern 4)ted  by  children. 

Mrs.  H.  Thee  sews,  perhaps,  while  thee  is  conversing 
wit!>  thy  friends. 

Mrs.  T.  O  dear,  no  I  I  have  not  had  a  needle  in  my 
hand  so  long  that  I  should  liardly  know  one  from  a  bodkin. 

Mrs.  H.  How  does  thee  provide  for  dinner  ?  Thee  di- 
rects the  cook,  I  suppose,  if  thee  does  not  help  in  the  nicer 
matters ;  I  frequently  make  the  cake  and  pastry,  and 
always  direct  the  preparation  of  every  thing  my  husband 
sends  home. 

Mrs.  T.  You  are  literally  tied  to  the  spit.  I  never  go 
near  my  kitchen,  and  the  cook  would  dare  as  soon  die  as 
ask  me  a  question  about  cookery.     She  knows  better. 

Mrs.  H.  Does  thee  never  eat  any  thing?  I  have  heard 
thy  husband  say,  thee  is  satisfied  with  the  wing  of  a 
pigeon  or  "  the  superior  portion  of  a  partridge's  nethei 
limb."     I  understand  I  must  not  call  it  the  thigh. 

Mrs.  T.  It  would  be  very  vulgar  to  do  so,  I  confess 
But  the  truth  is,  I  do  eat  a  great  deal,  and  always  lay  in 
a  stock  of  ham  and  eggs,  or  some  other  substantial,  be- 
fore I  go  to  dinner,  especially  if  I  dine  out.  Mercy  on  us  I 
a  lady's  eating  has  almost  become  a  test  of  gentility.  1 
do  sometimes  taste  of  the  soup,  and  eat  half  a  chicken's 
wiiig,  but  Lady  Dribble  beats  me,  for  I  have  seen  iier 


188 

faiiit  over  one  pea,  and  Lady  Cowslip  almost  died  the 
other  day  of  an  overgrown  strawberry. 

Mrs.  H.  This  amuses  me,  and  yet  I  am  pained  at  such 
such 

Mrs.  T.  Folly,  —  why  don't  you  say  what  you  evi- 
dently think. 

Mrs.  H.  I  would  not  willingly  offend  thee,  Myrtilla. 
But,  my  dear,  if  thee  has  no  family  cares,  thee  has  much 
time  to  devote  to  the  great  cause  of  humanity  and  benevo- 
lence. 

Mrs.  T.  O  don't,  Mrs.  Homespun,  don't  mention  that 
tlireadbare  subject.  If  there  is  any  thing  I  supremely 
hate,  it  is  cant. 

Mrs.  H.  Myrtilla,  I  trust  thee  has  not  ceased  to  be  a 
woman  and  a  Christian.  • 

Mrs.  T.  I  would  not  be  a  woman  any  longer,  if  I  could 
help  it,  and  as  to  being  a  Christian,  I  sometimes  go  to 
church  half  a  day,  when  I  have  a  new  bonnet  or  a  new 
dress.     Besides,  Sunday  is  the  only  time  I  find  to  practise. 

Mrs  H.  I  should  think  thee  might  find  opportunity  to 
practise  on  week  days  ;  for  the  poor  are  not  sick  and 
necHJy  on  First  day  only. 

Mrs.  T.  Excuse  me  for  smiling  at  your  simplicity,  I 
referred  to  practice  on  the  harp  and  guitar. 

Mrs.  H.  I  did  give  thee  credit  for  a  different  practice, 
1  will  not  offend  thee  by  saying,  — a  better. 

Mrs.  T.  You  may  say  what  you  please,  it  will  not  al- 
ter fashion. 

Mrs.  H.  Do  you  mean,  my  dear,  that  you  do  certain 
things  because  they  are  fashionable,  and  not  because  they 
are  right  ? 

Mrs.  T.  I  do  mean  to  say,  that  a  lady  may  as  well  bo 
out  of  the  world  as  out  of  fashion. 

Mrs.  II.  I  need  not  say  to  thee,  that  I  am  no  votary 
of  fashion,  and  yet  I  am  not  out  of  the  world. 

Mrs.  T.  Out  of  the  fashionable  world  you  certainly 
are. 

Mrs.  II.  WiP  thee  excuse  me,  if  I  say  that  the  fash- 
ionable world  is  not  the  world  God  made,  and  just  as  far 
as  we  advance  in  the  one,  we  depart  from  the  other, 
iSolctnnhj  )     Myrtilla  ? 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  189 

l^lrs.  T.     Why  do  you  address  me  so  solemnly  ? 

Mrs.  H.     Myrtilla,  is  thee  happy  ? 

Mrs.  T.  Happy,  no,  I  don't  know  by  experience  what 
the  word  means. 

Mrs.  H.  Why  does  thee  persevere  in  a  course  of  unhap- 
piness,  when  thee  can  leave  it  at  any  moment  ? 

Mis.  T.     I  would  give  the  world  to  leave  it. 

Mrs.  H.  It  will  cost  thee  nothing.  Go  home  with  me, 
and  I  will  insure  thee  a  cure,  and  charge  thee  nothing. 
Thee  may  yet  save  thy  husband  from  bankruptcy. 

Mrs.  T.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Mrs.  H.  Your  husband  tells  my  Barnabas  what  he  is 
afraid  to  tell  thee,  his  own  wife.  His  affairs  are  deeply 
involved,  and  the  world  says 

Mrs.  T.     Says  what  r  — Let  me  know  the  worst. 

Mrs.  H.  It  lays  the  blame  on  thee.  Thy  husband  lovea 
thee,  but  he  thinks  thee  find  pleasure  in  the  life  thee  leads, 
and  though  he  cannot  participate  in  it,  nor  afford  it,  he  can 
not  bear  to  pain  thee  with  the  truth. 

Mrs.  T.  What  can  I  do  ?  I  would  do  any  thing,  for  I 
am  as  sick  of  it  as  he  is. 

Mrs.  H.  Do  what  your  heart  and  reason  dictate.  Come 
home  with  me,  and  see  the  other  side  of  the  world.  We 
can  then  lay  a  plan  that  will  not  only  avert  the  pecuniary 
ruin,  but  save  thee  from  that  mental  and  moral  ruin,  which 
are  just  as  near,  and  far  more  dreadful. 

Mrs.  T.  I  will  go.  Do  not  say  a  word  to  my  husband 
of  my  motive  for  making  you  the  visit,  and,  in  your  quiet 
village,  we  will  prepare  an  agreeable  disappointment  for 
him  in  the  shape  of — a  reformed  wife. 


LXXIX.     THE  TWO  POETS. 

AN  EDITOR,   MR.   SPONDEE,  AND  MR.   CADENCE. 

Cad,  (To  the  Editor.)  Sir,  you  will  excuse  my  mtru- 
sion,  I  did  not  know  that  my  friend,  Mr.  Spondee,  was 
here. 


190  /owle's  hundred  dialogues. 

Sp.  My  business  is  unimportant.  I  merely  wish  to 
have  a  piece  inserted  in  tiie  next  Gazette. 

Cad.  My  friend  is  a  master  both  of  prose  and  verse. 
I  also  have  brought  a  few  hues  of  which  1  should  like  to 
have  your  joint  opinion. 

Sp.  Your  verses  have  beauties  unattained  by  others. 
By  the  way,  have  you  seen  a  sonnet  to  the  queen,  that  is 
going  the  rounds  ? 

Cad.     It  was  read  to  me  yesterday,  at  a  party. 

Sp.     You  know  the  author  ? 

Cad.  No,  but  I  know  tliat  he  must  be  a  dunce,  to 
write  such  nonsense. 

Sp.     Many  persons  think  it  admirable. 

Cad.  That  will  not  save  it.  Many  persons  think  the 
moon  more  beautiful  than  the  sun,  because  their  eyes  are 
weak. 

S}>.     Few  persons  are  equal  to  such  a  sonnet. 

Cad.     Heaven  preserve  me  from  writing  such  I 

Sp.  I  maintain  that  the  sonnet  is  perfect,  and  the  chief 
reason  for  my  opinion  is,  that  I  am  the  author  of  it. 

Cad.     You  the  author  of  it ! 

Sp.     I. 

Cad.     I  don't  know  how  that  could  happen. 

Sp.     I  was  unfortunate  not  to  please  Mr.  Cadence. 

Cad.  My  mind  must  have  wandered  while  i  was  lis.- 
tening  to  it,  or  else  the  reader  spoiled  it.  But,  no  matter, 
let  me  read  my  ballad  to  you. 

Sp.  A  ballad  is  a  small  affair,  in  my  judgment ;  it  is 
no  longer  fashionable,  and  smacks  of  by-gone  things. 

Cad.     A  ballad,  however,  delights  most  folks. 

Sp.     That  does  not  prevent  its  displeasing  me. 

Cad.    It  is  none  the  worse  for  that. 

Sp.     It  has  wonderful  charms  for  the  pedantic. 

Cad.     How  comes  it  that  it  does  not  please  you,  then  ? 

Sp.     Begone,  you  spoiler  of  white  paper. 

Cad.     Avaunt,  you  waster  of  black  ink. 

Sp.     Get  out,  you  thief  that  steals  from  other  writers  ; 

Cad      Get  out,  you  dunce,  from  whom  nobody  steals  I 

Editor.     Gentlemen,  what  are  you  doing  ? 

1^.  (To  Cadence.)  Begone,  and  restore  your  stolen 
goods. 


191 

Cad.     My  immortality  is  secure,  you  cannot  touch  it. 

iSp.     There  is  an  immortality  of  infamy. 

Cad.     1  commend  you  to  it- 

Sp.  The  satirists  have  lashed  you,  but  they  never 
touch  me. 

Cad.     They  can  not  see  what  is  so  small. 

Sp.     My  pen  will  teach  you  what  I  am. 

Cad.     It  has  already  taught  me  that  you  are  an  —  ass. 

Sp.     That  ass  your  master  is,  as  you  shall  feel. 

Edi.  Gentlemen  I  gentlemen !  it  seems  to  me,  that,  as 
I  am  to  be  the  purchaser,  you  take  strange  means  to  re- 
commend your  goods.  The  better  way  will  be  to  leave 
your  poems  in  my  keeping,  and  it  may  be  well  to  be  recon- 
ciled, and  pray  that  my  poor  judgment  may  not  be  like 
yours. 

Cad.     The  wretch  was  never  on  Parnassus, 

Sp.     The  scribbler  never  had  a  draft  from  Helicon. 

Cad.  One  line  of  my  ballad  would  outweigh  a  dozen 
of  his  sonnets. 

Sp.     Dulness  is  heavy  always. 

Cad.     Nonsense  is  always  light. 

Edi.  Gentlemen,  I  shall  only  deal  with  you  when 
each  the  other's  work  shall  recommend.  If  you  are  judg- 
es, you  no  poets  are ;  and  if  you  are  poets,  you  no  judges 
are. 

Poets  are  born,  not  made,  't  is  said, 
And  you  seem  neither  born  nor  made. 


LXXX.    THE   HYPOCHONDHIAC. 

mahy  roby  and  her  aunt  rachel. 

[Note.  —  By  varying  a  few  words,  this  Dialogue  may  be  spoken  by 
two  males.] 

M.     Good  morning,  aunt,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  looking 
so  well, 


192 

A.  Well !  what  do  you  call  well  ?  I  never  was  so  ill 
in  my  life.  I  wish  no  one  to  say  I  am  well,  when  I  am 
almost  dead. 

M.  I  knew  you  were  indisposed,  dear  aunt,  but  I 
thought  I  would  encourage  you  as  far  as  I  could. 

A.  I  want  no  encouragement  that  is  based  on  false- 
hood. I  am  a  very  sick  woman,  and  must  not  be  deceived 
by  any  false  representations  of  my  condition. 

M.  Dear  Aunt,  I  had  no  wish  to  deceive  you,  for  J 
knew  you  were  very,  very  sick. 

A.  Very,  very  sick  ?  Who  told  you  that  I  was  so 
very  sick  ?  I  think  people  had  better  mind  their  own 
health,  and  let  mine  alone.  Who  told  you  that  I  was  so 
very  sick  ? 

M.  I  heard  Goody  Gossip  say  that  she  feared  you 
were  in  a  decline. 

A.  She  did,  did  she?  Very  well,  what  else  did  you 
hear? 

M.  I  heard  Madam  Babble  say  that  you  could  not 
stand  it  much  longer,  you  had  such  a  complication  of  dis- 
eases. 

A.  Could  n't,  hey  I  I  guess  she  '11  find  I  can  stand  it 
as  long  as  she  can.    Well,  go  on,  what  else  did  you  hear  ? 

M.  I  heard  Polly  Prattler  say  that  you  ought  to  be  pre- 
paring for  another  world,  and  not  waste  any  more  time  in 
preparing  nostrums. 

A.  The  wretch  !  A  nasty  meddlesome  spinster !  She 
had  better  be  thinking  of  matrimony,  if  ever  she  means 
to  be  respectable.  Pretty  well,  if  nobody  can  be  ill  with- 
out being  sent  to  the  other  world  in  this  fashion.  Well, 
what  else  have  you  heard  ? 

M.  I  have  heard  a  great  many  say,  that  it  is  a  gone 
case  with  you,  if  you  are  a  woman  of  veracity,  and  suf- 
fer half  you  say  you  do, 

A.  What  consummate  impudence !  Is  that  all  you 
have  heard  ? 

M.  No,  aunt,  for  Mrs.  Blab  said  she  thought  you  could 
not  live  more  than  a  century. 

A.  What  did  the  woman  mean?  More  than  a  centu- 
ry I  well  who  expects  to  live  more  than  a  century,  I 
should  hketo  know? 


FOWLE*S    HUNDRED    DIALOGUES.  193 

M.  Aunt,  do  you  not  like  to  be  told  that  you  aro  sick' 
You  reproved  me  just  now  for  saying  yon  looked  so  well. 

A.     I  hate  hypocrisy. 

M.  It  was  not  hypocrisy,  but  a  desire  to  please  you 
Jiat  led  to  my  remark;  and,  in  the  case  of  the  ladies  I 
have  named,  there  was  no  hypocrisy,  for  they  did  not 
speak  in  your  presence,  and  never  supposed  you  would 
know  what  they  said.  But,  dear  aunt,  are  you  sick  or 
well? 

A.  That's  none  of  their  business.  I  am  better  than 
some  folks  wish  me  to  be. 

M.  I  am  glad  you  are  better,  aunt.  I  have  heard 
mother  say  you  were  not  so  sick  as  you  supposed. 

A.  Hey  day?  She  said  that,  did  she?  That  is  just 
as  much  feeling  as  she  has  for  me.  If  I  were  dying,  she 
would  not  think  there  was  any  cause  for  alarm. 

M.  ■  She  loves  you  so  well,  I  do  not  think  she  would 
ever  neglect  you  ;  but  she  is  not  alone,  aunt,  in  her  re- 
mark, for  1  have  heard  father  say  that  you  would  live  to 
bury  most  of  us. 

A.  Yes,  and  to  Jcill  you,  too,  I  suppose  ;  did  n't  he  add 
that? 

M.  No,  aunt,  though  he  sometimes  says  he  thinks 
your  whims  give  the  family  much  unnecessary  trouble. 

A.  I'll  never  complain  again,  if  I  am  so  sick  as  to  be 
motionless  and  speechless. 

M.  You  could  n't  complain  then,  aunt.  But  you  must 
be  very  sick,  though  you  will  not  own  it,  for  father  says 
"you  have  made  your  will,  and  folks  do  not  make  wills, 
while  they  can  have  them,  as  you  do." 

A.     What  does  he  mean  by  that  ? 

M.  When  he  said  so,  cousin  Jolm  remarked,  that  *'  you 
had  not  only  made  your  will,  but  proved  it." 

A.  A  villain,  he  '11  come  to  some  bad  end,  yet.  Made 
my  will,  have  1 1 

M.  Dear  Aunt,  do  tell  me  whether  I  must  consider 
you  well  or  ill.  If  I  say  you  are  well,  you  say  you  are 
ill,  and  if  I  say  you  are  ill,  you  declare  that  you  are  well. 
What  is  your  will  in  this  matter  ? 

A.     Made  my  will,  have  I  ? 


194 

M,  Aunt  you  can  't  be  angry  with  me,  I  know  you 
can 't. 

A.  I  have  not  made  my  will,  Mary,  but  I  'L  now  make 
it,  and  you  shall  know  how  I  dispose  of  my  property. 

M.  Well,  aunt,  I  hope  you  are  not  offended,  we  never 
mean  to  hurt  your  feelings. 

A.  First  and  foremost  or  imprimis,  as  the  wills  run,  I 
give  and  bequeath  all  my  whims  to  the  winds, 

M.  O  dear,  Aunt,  the  winds  will  be  more  changeable 
than  ever. 

A.     Next,  I  give  all  my  physic  to  the  dogs, 

M.  Mercy  on  us,  I  hope  they  will  take  it,  though  I 
shall  pity  them. 

A.     I  give  my  ill-temper  to 

M.     Don't  aunt,  don't  give  that  to  any  one,  I  pray  you, 

A.     Would  you  have  me  keep  it,  Mary  ?     No,  I  give 

that  to oblivion,  because  that  always  loses  what  is 

given  to  it. 

M.  That  sounds  like  yourself,  aunt,  before  you  were 
accustomed  to  be  so  sick. 

A.  Well,  dear,  I  have  only  one  thing  mere  to  give 
away,  and  that  is  my  —  forgiveness. 

M.     And  that  you  will  give  to  me,  aiuit,  will  you  not? 

A.  Yes,,  and  to  your  father  and  mother,  and  Mrs. 
Blab,  and  Mrs.  Prattle,  and  Goody  Gossip,  whose  remarks 
have  cured  me  of  a  foolish  habit  of  complaining  that  has 
made  me  a  nuisance  to  my  friends,  I  have  made  ray 
will.  (Offering  her  hand.)  There  is  my  hand  ;  and  {kiss- 
ing Mary,)  there  is  my  seal. 

M.     The  will,  then,  is  duly  signed,  sealed  and  delivered. 

A.  Yes,  and  [turnhig  to  the  audience)  ^\\  these  ladies 
and  gentlemen  are  the  witnesses. 


195 


LXXXI.     WILLIAM   TELL  AND   TIIE  CAP. 

WILLIAM  TELL,  tkc  Swiss  peosant. 

GESLER,  the  AuUrian  gooernor. 

OFFICER  of  Ike  tyrant  and  aeveral  guards. 

\  Tell  is  looking  with  derision  at  a  cap  elevated  on  a  pole,  to  which 
every  Swiss  who  passed  was  required  to  bow.  ] 

Officer.  Bend,  fellow,  'tis  the  governor's  cap,  —  'tis 
Gesler's. 

Tdl.  'Tis  bad  enough  to  bow  to  Gesler's  self.  I  am 
no  worshipper  of  images. 

Off.  Gesler  has  given  strict  command  that  every  man, 
who  enters  Altorif,  siiall  do  homage  to  this  symbol  of  his 
power. 

TcU.     The  fiiiilt  is  in  the  order.     I  bow  not  unto  things. 

Off.     Death  awaits  disobedience. 

Tell.     'Twere  greater  death  to  bow. 

Off.     How  so,  rash  stranger  ? 

Tell.  To  him  who  hath  a  soul,  'tis  a  small  matter  to 
put  off  the  husk  that  it  inhabits ;  for,  to  him  who  is  not 
free,  such  death  is  sweet  release,  to  be  in  every  advent 
welcomed. 

Off.     You  will  taste  it  soon. 

Tell.  It  can  not  come  too  soon.  But  there  's  a  death 
more  terrible,  and  he,  alone,  who  can  cast  down  the 
image  of  his  God  incarnate  in  himself,  doth  truly  die. 

Off.  What  mean  you  ?  Will  you  —  dare  you  refuse 
obedience  to  the  law,  the  high  command  of  Gesler  ? 

Tell.     I  dare,  and  do. 

Off.     There 's  no  appeal  from  Gesler's  dread  decision. 

Tell,     (smiling,)  Oh,  yes. 

Off.     To  what  ?  to  whom  ? 

Tell.  To  Heaven  ;  to  God.  I  feel  within  my  soul  a 
law  that  tyrants  never  framed,  and  cannot  supersede. 

Off.  You  will  not,  then,  salute  this  representative  of 
power  supreme  ? 

T'ell.     Never,  so  help  me  God  to  stand  erect. 


i96  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

{Enter  Gesler.) 

Off.  This  mountaineer,  though  ordered  oft,  refuses 
Btill  to  bow  himself  and  own  subjection. 

Gc^.     Who  dares  to  trifle  thus  with  life? 

Off.     He  will  no  name  disclose. 

Ges.     Traitor,  where  dwellest  thou  ? 

Off.  {After  a  'pause,)  Speak,  fellow,  speak,  or  die  a 
traitor's  death. 

T'ell.  He  is  the  traitor  who  betrays,  not  he  who  fain 
would  save. 

Gcs.  Load  him  with  chains  I  Nay,  stof) ! — Villain, 
there  stands  the  ensign  of  my  power,  I  give  thee  yet  a 
chance  to  pay  it  due  respect. 

Ttll.  Such  scarecrows  only  frighten  wrens  ;  the  moun- 
tain eagle  never  heeds  them.  Thus  do  I  show  respect  to 
tyrants,    {throwing  clown  the  pole) 

Off.     {Drawing  fm  boiv,)  Shall  I  shoot  the  traitor  down  ? 

G(s.  Not  so.  Let  torture  wring  from  him  his  namo 
and  his  accomplices.  He  does  not  act  alone.  —  Say, 
villain,  who  is  leagued  with  thee  in  this  revolt  ? 

Tell.  Heaven,  whose  alone  is  vengeance.  The  hour 
is  hastening  on. 

Ges.     You  shall  not  live  to  see  it. 

Tell.  Switzerland  will ;  and  Liberty  looks  not  to  mo 
or  any  man  for  life. 

Ges.  Lead  him  to  prison.  We  must  now  invent  some 
horrid  penalty  for  such  audacious  crime. 

( The  officer  lays  his  hand  on  Tell,  ivho  throws  it  from  hinn^ 
and,  'pointing  forward,  says :  —  ) 

Tell.     Lead  on  ;  I'll  follow  thee. 

( The  officer  goes  out,  Tell  haughtily  folkwing  him,  and 
the  guards  closing  up  the  rear. 


197 


LXXXn.     THE   ^lANLY  VIRTUES. 

A    DISCUSSION. 

MR.  A.,  Honesty.  mr.  f.,  Economy. 

MR.  B.,   Courtesy.  mr.  g.,  Liberality. 

MR.  c,  Prudence.  mr.  h.,  Caution. 

MR.  D.,  Perseverance.  president,  Cheerfulness. 

MR.  E.,  Courage. 

A.  Mr.  President,  I  understand  the  question  to  be, 
"  Which  of  the  manly  virtues  conduces  most  to  success  in 
hfe  ? "  If  I  am  wrong,  Sir,  you  will  please  to  set  me 
right. 

Pres.  You  are  right,  sir  ;  we  shall  be  happy  to  hear 
from  you. 

A.  I  should  prefer,  sir,  to  be  called  on  to  say,  what 
union  of  manly  virtues  should  be  formed  to  create  a 
perfect  character,  for  I  believe  that  no  one  is  sufficient  of 
itself  to  elevate  and  support  its  possessor  ;  but,  sir,  as  I 
must  make  a  choice,  and  am  only  called  on  to  show  the 
superiority  of  some  one  over  others,  and  not  its  ability  to 
perfect'  character  without  their  aid,  I  shall,  without  any 
hesitation,  select  Honesty,  for,  without  this  sterling  virtue, 
I  do  not  see  how  there  can  be  any  worth  of  character,  or 
any  foundation  for  success  in  any  business  or  profession. 
The  maxim  that  "  Houesty  is  the  best  policy,"  has  been 
universally  accepted,  time  out  of  mind ;  and  who  can 
wonder  at  this  ?  For,  the  dishonest  merchant  is  a  robber; 
the  dishonest  lawyer  is  a  villain  ;  the  dishonest  physician 
is  a  murderer  ;  the  dishonest  clergyman  is  a  hypocrite ; 
the  dishonest  politician  is  a  nuisance.  1  consider  liouesty 
and  truthfulness  one  and  the  same  thing,  honesty  being 
only  truth  in  action,  and,  as  there  is  nothing  so  sacred  as 
truth,  I  feel  safe  in  declaring  that  there  is  nothing  so 
important  to  success  in  life  as  honesty. 

B.  Mr.  President,  I  feel  very  much  disposed  to  adopt 
all  the  sentiments  of  the  gentleman  who  has  just  spoken, 
for  I   believe,  as  strongly  as  he  does,   in  the  worth  and 


198 

importuuDe  of  honesty,  but,  sir,  the  question  is  not,  how 
niucli  more  vahiable  is  honesty  than  otlier  virtues,  but 
which  will  conduce  most  to  one's  success  in  life?  It" 
men  were  what  they  ought  to  be,  there  would  be  more 
reason  in  my  friend's  arguments  ;  but,  sir,  who  does  not 
see  that  the  honest  merciiant  is  rarely  tiie  prosperous  one  ; 
and  who  does  not  know  that  the  maxim,  "  Honesty  is  the 
best  policy,"  has  refereitce  rather  to  the  next  woild 
then  to  that  in  which  we  live.  The  maxim  now"  is,  that 
"  it  is  hard  for  an  honest  man  to  get  a  living."  I  will  not 
undertake,  sir,  to  prove  that  all  unsuccessful  men  are 
lionest  men,  for  this  would  be  undertaking  to  prove  that 
nine  tenths  of  mankind  are  lionest,  which  1  do  not  be- 
lieve. The  truly  honest  physician,  sir,  would  often  have 
nothing  to  eat  but  his  own  pills,  and  as  these  would  not  be 
bread,  like  those  of  the  more  cunning,  he  would  lead  a 
hard  life  of  it.  So  the  truly  honest  lawyer  will  have  few 
fees  and  few  cases,  for  the  larger  part  of  cases  would  be 
quashed  by  an  honest  lawyer,  and  most  of  the  others 
would  be  such  as  an  honest  man  could  never  soil  his  hands 
with  An  honest  clergyman,  sir,  always  has  more  ene- 
mies than  a  time-server,  and  as  for  an  honest  politician, 
why,  sir,  this  is  an  impossibility.  Every  one  knows  that 
all  IS  fair  in  politics,  and  that  honesty  is  never  required  in 
candidates  ibr  ofhce.  It  is  vain,  therefore,  for  the  gen- 
tleman to  preach  up  Honesty  as  a  means  of  success,  and 
1  sliall  propose  Courtesy.  This  may  seem  to  you,  sir,  a 
tame  sort  of  virtue,  but,  you  will  recollect  that  "  Man- 
neis  make  the  Man,"  and  even  the  great  Apostle  of  the 
(j!entiles  found  it  to  be  his  true  })olicy  ^'to  become  all 
things  to  all  men."  He,  who  treats  all  men  with  re- 
spect, carries  with  him  a  letter  of  recomixendation,  that 
rarely  fails  to  give  him  currency  ;  but  ^ho  does  not  know 
that  a  man  of  rough  manners,  and  unprepossessing  exter- 
ior always  appears  to  disadvantage,  and  has  to  remove 
a  prejudice  before  he  can  make  any  progress.  It  is 
true,  that  some  boors  have  succeeded  in  acquiring  wealth, 
and  power,  and  rank,  but  so  few  have  done  this,  that 
they  must  be  set  down  as  exceptions  to  the  rule,  and 
not  its  illustrations  Courtesy,  sir,  is  a  substitute  for  aLniost 
every  other  virtue.     He  who  has  it,  is  presumed  to  have 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  199 

all  the  rest ;  and  he  who  has  it  not,  will  hardly  obtain 
credit  for  the  virtues  which  he  really  possesses. 

G.  Mr.  President,  I  wonder  not  a  little  at  the  confidence 
with  which  the  gentleman,  wlio  has  preceded  me,  speaks 
of  courtesy  and  good  manners  as  aids  to  success  in  life. 
Nobody  will  deny,  I  suppose,  that  pleasing  and  gentle- 
manly manners  are  preferable  to  coarse  and  vulgar  de- 
portment ;  but,  sir,  it  would  not  require  much  skill  to 
show  that  manners  are  but  the  trappings  of  character, 
and  have  as  little  to  do  with  the  real  worth  of  the  man 
as  his  dress  does.  Nay,  sir,  I  sliould  not  be  afraid  to  as- 
sert that  dress  has  more  to  do  with  success  in  life  than 
courtesy  can  pretend  to.  Why,  sir,  who  does  not  know 
that  a  poor  man,  badly  dressed,  however  courteous  and 
polite,  would  stand  no  cliance  of  success  in  any  profession 
or  in  any  important  undertaking.  Such,  1  believe,  is  the 
general  impression,  for  wlio  will  deny  that  most  of  our 
rich  men,  our  profound  scholars,  and  most  distingaished 
citizens,  are  not  remarkable  for  elegance  of  manners  ; 
who  will  deny,  that,  with  the  fair  sex,  dress  is  the  great 
object  of  desire,  and  he,  who  would  win  then*  favor, 
stands  little  chance  of  success,  unless  he  attends  to  the 
quality  and  cut  of  his  coat,  and  is  liberal  in  his  contribu- 
tions to  the  toilet  of  his  dulcinea.  I  venture  to  assert, 
sir,  that  there  is  one  virtue  transcendently  more  important 
to  success  in  life,  and  I  think  I  shall  need  to  say  little  by 
way  of  argument,  when  I  have  named  Prudence.  It 
does  appear  to  me,  sir,  tiiat,  nearly  all  the  failures  that  we 
see  in  business,  and  in  professional  and  political  advance- 
ment, arise  not  from  the  dishonesty  or  the  ill-manners  of 
men,  but  from  their  lack  of  Prudence.  Prudence,  I  need 
not  say  to  this  learned  audience,  is  a  contraction  of  the 
word  Providenc^ which  comes  from  a  Latin  verb  mean- 
ing "looking  ahead,"  or  "seeing  in  advance."  Now,  sir, 
this  is  the  key  to  success.  He  who  looks  forward,  and 
thus",  becomes  prepared  to  meet  the  events  that  are  fore- 
seen, will  seldom  be  surprised  by  great  mislbrtune.  Sa- 
gacity is  but  another  name  for  prudence,  and  what  higher 
compliment  can  be  paid  to  a  merchant,  a  professional 
man,  or  politician,  than  to  say,  he  is  sagacious.  I  ilo  not 
think,  that,  if  I  should  speak  an  hour  on  this  subject,  I 


200 

could  add  any  thing  to  the  evident  fact,  that,  success  de- 
pends on  Prudence,  and  ill-success  may  almost  always  be 
directly  traced  to  Imprudence. 

D.  All  that  has  been  said  by  my  predecessors,  Mr. 
President,  may  seem  very  specious  to  a  superficial  ob- 
server, but  to  one  who  looks  at  the  question  a  Httle  more 
profoundly,  it  must  be  evident,  I  think,  that  there  is  but 
little  judgment  in  their  choice  of  virtues,  and  little  solid 
argument  in  their  defence  of  them.  Why,  look,  sir,  at 
the  vaunted  Prudence  of  which  the  gentleman  has  just 
spoken  so  confidently.  What  does  it  amount  to  ?  The 
day  of  prophecy,  like  that  of  miracles,  is  past,  and  human 
foresight  is  almost  a  bye- word.  The  best  of  us  does  not 
know  what  a  day  may  bring  forth  ;  and  if  he  did,  what 
good  would  it  do  him  ?  I  assert,  without  fear  of  contra- 
diction, that  if  we  could  foresee  what  is  to  happen,  instead 
of  being  strengthened  for  t-!i3  conflicts  of  hfe,  we  should 
generally  be  weakened  and  unmanned.  While  there  is 
doubt  and  uncertainty  as  to  the  future,  there  is  hope  ;  and 
while  there  is  ho{)e  there  will  be  Perseverance,  and,  sir,  I 
maintain  that  Perseverance,  the  virtue  I  have  just  men- 
tioned, is  altogether  more  reliable  than  any  virtue,  that 
has  been  named,  or  can  he  named  by  any  one  who  hears 
me.  "  Constant  dro})ping  of  water  we  know  will  wear 
away  the  hardest  stone,"  and  what  is  this  but  an  emblem 
of  perse  vera  iice?  The  cause  of  failure  in  human  und'^r- 
takings,  sir,  does  not  arise  so  much  from  ignorance  of  tiie 
future,  as  from  want  of  faith  and  confidence  in  the  pres- 
ent,—  in  ourselves.  Lie  who  undertakes  a  task  should 
Dot  consider  an  ultimate  failure  possible  ;  and  if  you  loek, 
sir,  at  the  list  of  successful  men,  in  whatever  department 
of  human  enterprise,  where  will  you  find  one,  however 
honest,  however  courteous,  and  however  prudent,  who  has 
not  withal  been  persevering  ?  The  French  proverb  says, 
•'It  is  the  first  step  only  that  costs,"  but,  I  believe,  sir, 
that  the  first  step  is  of  little  importance,  if  it  is  not  fol- 
lowed up  by  a  steady  and  unfaltering  succession  of  ste[)s. 
I  think  it  must  be  evident  to  all  who  hear  me,  that,  al- 
though a  sudden  and  single  effort  may  occasionally  remove 
an  evil  or  avert  it,  or  may  even  secure  a  positive  good,  the 
masi  of  men  are  entirely  unfitted  for  such  efforts,  and,  if 


FOWLERS    HUNDRED  DIALOGUES.  201 

ihey  ever  succeed  in  their  undertakings,  must  do  it  by  dint 
of  Perseverance.     I  rest  my  case  here,  sir. 

E.  Mr.  President,  I  shall  not  deny  that  Perseverance 
is  essential  to  success,  but,  sir,  who  has  lived  to  any  pur- 
pose, if  he  has  not  observed  that  the  persevering  diggers 
and  del  vers  seldom  become  any  thing  better  than  diggers 
and  delvers.  Men  who  are  remarkable  for  perseverance, 
are  also  remarkable  for  narrow  views  and  limited  under- 
takings. You  seldom  see  any  enterprise  among  those  who 
tell  you  that  "the  constant  dropping  of  water  will  wear 
away  the  stone."  Well,  suppose  it  does  wear  it  away, 
what  does  it  get  by  that?  Who  is  the  better  for  that  sort 
of  labor  ?  No,  sir,  he  who  would  succeed  in  the  world, 
must  not  only  be  willing  to  work,  but  he  must  have  th(^ 
courage  to  go  ahead.  Courage,  sir,  is  more  essential  to 
success  than  any  other  mental  quality.  In  that  greatest 
or  all  human  concerns,  the  selection  of  a  partner  for  bet- 
ter or  worse,  who  does  not  know  that  "  a  faint  heart  nevex 
wins  a  fair  lady  ? "  What  sends  the  ships  and  sons  oi^ 
America  to  the  hiding  places  of  the  snn,  or  to  the  regions 
that  defy  his  power?  Is  it  not  that  indomitable  courage, 
which  is  increased  by  obstacles,  and  which  fears  no  dan- 
ger? *'  While  we  were  holding  a  Council,"  says  an  Eng- 
lish officer,  "  and  discussing  the  question,  whether  it  was 
possible  to  force  a  passage  through  the  ice  of  Wellington 
Sound  near  the  North  Pole,  the  Yankees  had  gone  thither 
without  holding  any  Council."  While  the  powers  of  Eu- 
rope were  sending  tribute  to  the  pirates  of  Algiers,  to  re- 
deem Christian  men  who  had  been  made  slaves,  the  Yan- 
kees sent  a  fleet,  and  blew  the  wretches  who  dealt  in  white 
slaves  sky-high.  While  Dr.  Lardner,  the  great  scientific 
philosopher,  was  proving,  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  scien- 
tific of  the  old  world,  that  no  steamship  could  ever  cross 
the  broad  Atlantic,  a  Yankee  steamship  was  entering  the 
port  of  Liverpool.  Nay,  to  go  farther  back,  when  the 
Puritans  were  persecuted  in  England,  did  tliey  persevere 
and  trust  to  the  final  success  of  their  principles  ?  No,  sir, 
they  waited  for  no  dropping  of  water  to  soften  the  flmty 
hearts  of  their  persecutors,  they  waited  for  no  rust  and  no 
friction  to  wear  away  their  chains,  but  they  dashed  across 
the  wide  ocean,  and  laid  the  foundation  of  a  free  empire 


202 

in  the  wilderness.  When  they  were  again  oppressed, 
did  they  wait,  as  the  amiable  non-resistants  pretend  they 
ought,  until  the  tyrants  voluntarily  and  gracefully  yielded 
the  rights  which  they  could  no  longer  withhold  ?  •  No,  sir, 
they  declared  themselves  free  and  independent,  and  did 
the  work  of  centuries  in  a  day.  It  is  well,  sir,  for  a  man, 
who  knows  he  is  right  to  persevere,  but  how  shall  he  per- 
severe? Shall  he  go  on  in  the  same  routine  of  duty,  like 
the  tanner's  horse,  who  moves  in  a  circle,  or  shall  he 
boldly  rise  from  one  right  to  another,  and  not  rest,  until, 
by  his  courage,  he  has  acquired  all  that  nature  ever 
intended  for  his  portion,  all  that  she  ever  fitted  him  to 
acquire  ?  Courage,  sir,  moral  Courage,  is  the  key  to  ad- 
vancement, and  the  pledge  of  success. 

F.  Mr.  President,  my  friend  has  just  drawn  a  glowing 
picture  of  Courage,  but  I  think  you  and  this  intelligent 
audience  must  have  perceived,  that,  like  most  pictures, 
it  is  a  work  of  imagination,  pleasant,  but  not  truthful ; 
specious,  and  yet  very  deceptive.  It  seems  to  me,  sir, 
that  he  did  not  do  justice  to  Perseverance,  which  certain- 
ly is  a  perpetual  exercise  of  the  Courage  he  recommends, 
and  he  said  nothing  of  the  countless  failures,  which  arise 
daily  from  what  he  calls  Courage  Look,  sir,  at  the  Mer- 
chants ,  we  are  told  that  more  than  nine  tenths  of  them 
fail  in  business,  and  pray,  sir,  what  leads  to  these  failures 
but  this  very  Courage  that  prompts  them  to  go  beyond 
their  depth,  and  to  attempt  what  is  impracticable. 

E.  Mr.  President,  I  am  sorry  to  interrupt  the  gentle- 
man, but  I  would  suggest  that  it  is  the  lack  of  courage 
that  leads  to  these  failures.  If  the  merchant  had  the 
Courage  to  live  within  his  means,  and  not  to  do  wrong 
because  others  did  so,  he  would  not  fail. 

F.  I  still  think,  sir,  that  what  the  gentleman  calls 
Courage  in  the  merchant,  who  has  no  enterprise,  is  only 
Perseverance,  but  I  shall  not  take  up  your  time  in  discus- 
sing this  point,  for  my  object  is  to  propose  a  virtue,  which 
will  insure  success,  without  the  risk  which  is  inseparable,' 
from  Courage,  I  mean  Economy.  Now,  sir,  as  far  as  my 
observation  goes,  the  trouble  with  all  our  merchants  who 
fail,  and  with  most  of  our  unsuccessful  professional  men, 
is,  that  they  lack  Economy,  or,  as  the  homely  old  proverb 


FOWLERS    HUNDRED    DIALOGUES.  203 

lias  it,  they  save  at  the  spigot  and  spill  at  the  bung-hole, 
I  lay  it  down  as  an  axiom,  that  the  economical  man  must 
succeed.  If  he  spends  less  than  he  earns,  he  must  amass  ; 
and  what  but  death  can  prevent  his  beoorning  rich,  if  he 
is  always  adding  to  his  store.  This  is  so  self  evident,  that 
I  presume  no  one  will  deny  it.  Of  what  uae  is  Honesty 
without  Economy?  Whither  would  Courtesy  lead,  with- 
out proper  economy  of  time  and  money,  both  of  which  it 
ts  apt  to  waste  ?  Prudence  is  very  well  so  far  as  it  walks 
by  the  side  of  Economy,  but  Perseverance  without  Econo- 
my may  be  eternally  laboring  in  vain.  As  for  Courage,  1 
have  already  shown  that  its  tendency  is  to  lead  men  into 
expenses,  or  into  difficulties,  which  must  result  in  ruin. 
Our  great  countryman  Franklin  was  the  personification  of 
Economy,  and  1  present  him  as  an  example  of  its  tenden- 
cy to  secure  the  highest  and  best  results. 

G.  Mr.  President,  I  am  somewhat  surprised  to  hear 
Economy  proposed  as  a  high  and  elevated  means  of  suc- 
cess in  life,  for,  su",  who  does  not  perceive  that  Economy 
has  reference  only  to  the  savmg  of  dollars  and  cents? 
and  Dr.  Franklin,  whom  the  gentleman  has  named  as  a 
model  man,  to  my  mind  is  only  a  walking  and  talking 
interest-table.  The  burden  of  his  songs  and  his  sermons 
is  "Get  money."  All  the  maxims  of  Poor  Richard, 
which  have  made  Frankhn  world-renowned,  are  comprised 
in  the  command,  "Get  money."  Now,  i  am  wilhng  to 
allow  that  money  has  its  uses,  but  1  am  not  willing  to  al- 
low that  it  is  more  important  than  every  thing  else,  or 
that,  as  some  pretend,  it  can  procure  every  thing  else.  I 
dare  say,  sir,  tliat  the  economical  man  may  become  rich, 
if  no  accident,  no  misfortune  lia|)pens  to  him  ;  but,  sir, 
unless  success  m  life  always  means  getting  rich,  the  end 
of  economy  is  v^ery  limited,  and  its  aid  only  a  secondary 
concern.  The  economical  man  is  almost  invariably  a. 
mean  man,  and  it  rarely  happens  that  his  family  or  his 
friends,  his  workmen  or  his  fellow  citizens  feel  any  of 
that  enthusiastic  regard  for  him,  which  is  always  felt  to- 
wards the  man  who  is  distinguished  for  his  Liberality  ; 
and  this  quality  or  virtue  is  wliat  I  feel  bound  to  propose 
as  the  surest  means  of  success  in  life.  He  who  deals 
liberally  in  business  is  sure  of  customers  ;  and  the  aspirant 


204 

to  honor,  who  pours  out  his  money -freely,  is  sure  of  friends. 
•'  It  is  the  Hbeial  soul,"  the  good  book  assures  us,  "  that  is 
made  fat,"  and,  for  this  reason,  probably,  we  always  con- 
nect the  idea  of  a  razor  with  a  miserly  or  very  economical 
man.  Lean  and  sharp  they  are  apt  to  be,  and  of  but  lit- 
tle use  except  for  shaving.  Liberality  is  always  popular. 
There  is  something  in  the  human  heart  which  leaps  with 
delight  at  every  act  of  generosity,  and  it  is  not  to  be  won- 
dered at,  that  liberal  men  so  often  become  favorites.  In 
considering  this  virtu  3,  sir,  1  would  not,  however,  restrict 
it  to  the  too  free  use  of  money.  True  Liberality  may  be 
shown  in  thoughts,  words  and  deeds,  as  weU  as  in  money 
transactions,  and  the  man  who  "  thinketh  no  evil"  of 
others,  who  speaketh  kindly  to  all,  and  who  maketh  a 
proper  allowance  for  the  actions,  and  even  the  failings  of 
others,  in  additioa  to  a  generous  distribution  of  his  wealth, 
cannot,  I  think,  fail  to  secure  the  esteem  and  love  of  his 
fellow  men,  and,  of  course,  succeed  in  life. 

H.  Mr.  President,  I  am  not  disposed  to  deny,  that  true 
liberality  is  an  ornament  to  character,  but,  that  it  leads  to 
success  in  life  may,  I  think,  admit  of  a  doubt.  The  truth 
is,  sir,  it  is  hard  to  distinguish  between  true  and  false  lib- 
erality. The  spendthrift  is  an  example  of  one  kind  of 
liberal  man.  He  never  lacks  friends  while  the  money 
lasts,  but,  when  he  comes,  as  he  often  does,  to  long  for 
the  husks  that  the  swine  do  eat,  he  can  hardly  be  called 
a  successful  man.  The  atheist  too,  and  the  iufidel  are 
usually  liberal  men,  but  it  is  the  kind  of  liberality  men 
feel,  when,  being  wrong  or  in  disgrace,  they  think  it  as 
well  not  to  condemn  their  neighbors,  whose  forbearance 
they  need.  One  fact  is  beyond  dispute,  I  think,  and  tliis 
is,  that  the  greater  part  of  successful  men,  I  care  not 
whether  they  be  kings  or  statesmen,  professional  men  or 
merchants,  the  greater  part  of  them  are  not  liberal  men. 
It  IS  a  fair  conclusion,  therefore,  that  liberality  has  not 
conduced  much  to  their  acknowledged  success  in  life. 
We  therefore,  must  look  for  another  motive  power,  and  I 
propose  Caution,  or,  as  some  prefer  to  call  it,  Cautious- 
ness. 

C.  Mr.  President,  I  have  no  objection  to  receiving  the 
gentleman  as  an  ally,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  he  does  not 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  205 

perceive  that  the  Caution  he  proposes,  and  the  Prudence, 
which  I  advocate,  are  about  the  same  thing,  and  operate 
in  the  same  way. 

H.  By  no  means,  Mr.  President.  Prudence,  if  I  un- 
derstand it,  always  looks  ahead,  but  Caution  deals  with 
objects  around  us.  The  prudent  man  lays  up  a  stock  of 
provisions  for  winter,  but  the  cautious  man  buys  the  lock 
that  is  to  keep  them  from  the  thief  The  prudent  man 
prepares  to  meet  the  commg  evil,  the  cautious  man  avoids 
the  evil  altogether. 

C.  J  still  think  that  Caution  is  included  in  Prudence, 
Mr.  President ;  for,  altliough  Prudence  may  look  ahead 
and  regard  the  future,  as  the  gentleman  says,  it  only  looks 
to  the  future  to  know  what  to  do  with  the  present.  Tiie 
prudent  man  avoids  temptation  and  danger  as  much  as 
the  cautious  man. 

H.  I  believe  that  Caution  may  arise  from  fear,  or  from 
past  suffering,  and  the  very  meaning  of  Prudence  or  Provi- 
dence, as  tlie  gentleman  has  told  us,  implies  the  opposite 
of  looking  back. 

C.  Not  at  all,  Mr.  President.  The  prudent  man  looks 
back  to  past  experience,  and  then  looks  forward  that  he 
may  profit  by  it. 

Pres.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  the  hour  allotted  to  the 
discussion  has  expired.  In  summing  up  the  various  points 
that  have  been  presented  by  the  speakers,  the  first  thing 
that  strikes  me  is,  the  relation  between  all  the  virtues 
that  have  been  proposed,  and  the  great  evil  that  must 
arise  from  their  separation.  No  one  can  ever  doubt  the 
importance  of  Honesty  in  word  and  deed,  but  what  a 
charm  is  thrown  around  it,  when  honest  words  are  Cour- 
teously spoken  ;  and  when  honest  deeds  do  not,  as  is  too 
often  the  case,  involve  a. breach  of  good  manners.  Who 
does  not  feel  the  necessity  of  Prudence  and  Caution, 
which  I  think  are  sisters,  if  not  identical,  and  how  blind 
and  fruitless  would  be  the  labor  of  Perseverance  without 
tliem.  How  essential  is  moral  Courage  to  all  the  virtues. 
We  must  have  Courage  to  be  honest,  to  be  civil,  to  be 
prudent,  to  be  persevering  in  unpopular  concerns,  to  be 
economical  in  an  extravagant  community,  and  we  must 
have  Courage  to  be  liberal  wlnm  our  lil;erality  is  sure  to 


200 

reduce  our  wealth,  to  produce  envy,  and  to  incur  the 
sneers  of  the  parsimonious  and  narrow-minded.  Economy 
too,  though  not  a  very  showy  virtue,  is  a  very  useful  one  , 
and  the  disposition  to  prevent  w^aste,  and  to  use  all  things 
to  the  best  advantage,  must  not  be  confounded  with  that 
meanness  or  parsimony,  which  pinches,  and  spares,  and 
grudges  even  what  is  necessary  and  convenient.  If  I 
miglit  be  allowed  to  add  one  to  the  goodly  company  of 
virtues  that  you  have  named,  I  should  name  Cueerful- 
NEss,  which,  although  not  always  conducive  to  what  is 
called  success  in  life,  certainly  adds  much  to  the  hapi)i- 
ness,  not  only  of  its  possessor,  but  of  all  with  whom  he 
has  to  do.  When  I  see  teachers  severe  and  solemn,  set 
and  precise,  in  whose  presence  even  the  spirits  of  a  child 
are  frozen ;  when  I  see  parents  morose  and  sour,  and 
curdling  thus  the  bounding  blood  of  their  offspring  ;  when 
I  see  professors  of  religion  frowning  upon  sportive  child- 
hood, and  giving  the  hateful  name  of  sin  to  innocent 
amusements,  I  feel  the  importance  of  a  cheerful  spirit ; 
and,  as  you  have  named  but  eight,  I  will  propose  Cheer- 
fulness as  a  ninth,  that  the  number  of  the  Virtues  may 
equal  that  of  the  Graces  ;  and,  that,  through  the  influence 
of  my  favorite  all  the  rest  may  be  uniformly  clothed  with 
smiles,  —  The  discussion  is  now  ended. 


LXXXIII.    NATHAN  AND  DAYID. 

Nathan.   {Kneeling.)     All  hail,  the  Lord's  anointed  ! 
David. Lift  thee  up.- 

It  ill  becometh  me,  an  eiring  man, 

To  see  a  servant  of  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 

Faithful  and  true,  as  thou  hast  been, 

Upon  his  knees  before  me.  Say,  what  would'st  thou  ? 
iV.  Justice,  my  lord  the  king.     I  come  to  lay 

Before  thy  throne  a  case  that  cries  to  heaven. 
D.     Speak,  then,  that  no  waste  of  words  may  lengthen  out 


fovvle's  hundred  dialogues.  207 

The  impunity  of  him,  who  thus  has  dared 
To  affront  higli  heaven.     Let  the  tale  be  brief, 
And  to  the  point,  as  thou  knowest  well  to  shape  it. 

JV.  My  lord,  in  the  same  city,  near  each  other,  lived 

Two  men,  the  one  exceeding  rich  in  flocks 
And  herds,  the  other  destitute  of  all 
Save  one  pet  lamb,  which  he  had  bought,  and  which 
Had  nourished  been,  and  reared  with  his  children. 
It  did  eat  from  his  hand,  drink  from  his  cup, 
And  lay  its  head  upon  his  lap,  as  if 
It  was  to  him  a  daughter. 

D:  Well,  go  on. 

iV.  There  came  a  traveller  to  the  rich  man's  door, 

And  he  to  entertain  him,  spared  to  take 
Of  his  own  vast  flocks  and  herds,  but  subtly  seized 
The  poor  man's  lamb,  and  dressed  it  for  the  stranger. 

D.  As  the  Lord  liveth,  he  who  this  hath  done 

Shall  surely  die. 

iV",  Thou  art  thyself  the  man  1- — Thus  saith  the  Lord : 

I  thee  anointed  king  over  Israel, 
And  saved  thee  from  thy  foes,  and  gave  thee  wealth, 
And  wives,  and  countless  subjects,  and  to  these 
I  would  have  added  all  tb.ou  should  'st  have  asked, 
And  yet  thy  lustful  eye  fell  on  the  wife. 
The  loved  one  of  Uriali,  thy  tried  friend, 
"Whose  all  she  was  ;  and  thou  didst  send  him  ofi' 
To  fight  thy  battles,  while  thou  staid  'st  at  home  ; 
And  didst  so  station  him,  that  thou  wert  sure 
His  very  virtue  would  his  ruin  seal. 
Uriah  fell   as  thou  ordain'dst,  and  thou. 
With  many  wives,  and  a  wide  world,  from  which 
To  choose  at  pleasure,  took  the  one  pet  lamb 
Of  thy  poor  friend  and  neighbor. 

2).  Servant  of  God,  forbear  I     I  feel  the  weight 

Of  mine  offence,  and  restitution 
Manifold  will  make. 

iV.  To  whom  ?     To  him 

Who  fell  for  thee,  by  thee  betrayed  and  slain? 
There  is  no  restitution  for  such  wrongs, 
And  retribution  stern  awaits  thee  now. 

£).  Let  me  know  any  penance  that  can  clear 


208       •  fowle's  hundred    dialogues. 

My  sinful  soul,  and  I  will  pay,  or  bear 
It  all,  so  heaven  be  reconciled  again. 

N.  Thus  saith  the  Lord,  tiie  God  of  Israel; 

The  child  Uriah's  wife  hath  borne  to  thee 
Shall  die  in  infancy,  and  blast  thy  hopes  ; 
Thy  people  shall  rebel ;  thy  favorite  son 
Shall  lead  in  the  rebellion,  and  thy  house 
Ere  it  has  numbered  three  short  generations. 
Shall  lose  the  throne,  and  all  thy  glory  fade, 

D.  Prophet  of  God,  not  so,  it  is  too  much. 

j-Y.     Jehovah's  self  hath  said. 

D.     {Humbly.)     His  will be  done. 


LXXXIV.    FASHIONABLE  CONVERSATION. 

[^Y  altering  a  word  or  two  this  may  be  a  Dialogue  between  Hitty 
Levis  and  Araminta  PufF.] 

HITTY    LEVIS    AND    TOM    CHAFF. 

Tom.     Good  evening.  Miss  Hitty  ;  how  do  you  do? 

Hitty.     Nicely,  I  thank  you.     How  do  you  do? 

T.     First  rate.     How's  your  mother? 

H     She 's  nicely,  too,  —  how  is  your  sister  ? 

T.     First  rate,  always.     What  have  you  new? 

H  Nothing ;  you  should  bring  the  news.  Beautiful 
weather,  is  n't  it  ? 

T.     First  rate.     Have  you  walked  much  to-day  ? 

H.  No ;  I  hate  walking  alone,  and  1  never  care  for 
any  thing  I  see,  Riding  is  my  dehght.  Don't  you  like 
riding? 

T.  It 's  first  rate,  but  costs  more  than  walking.  What 
have  you  been  reading  of  late? 

H.  I  have  just  finished  "  The  Hatchet  of  Horror,  or 
the  Massacred  Milkmaid  ; "  have  you  read  it  ? 

T.     No  ;  I  have  just  begtm  it.     First  rate,  is  n't  it? 

H     I  call  it  splendid,  thoui^'i  not  equal  to  ''The  Blue 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  209 

Robber  of  the  Pink  Mountain."  I  don't  know  wb.it  1 
should  do  without  a  good  novel  to  drive  away  tlie  hypo. 
Father  says  he  thinks  it  would  do  more  good  to  go  among 
my  fellow  creatures  and  benefit  them  ;  but,  goodness  gra- 
cious !  one  can't  look  at  a  fellow  creature  after  reading  a 
good  novel. 

T.  I  adore  a  first  rate  novel.  It  builds  me  up  for  a 
month.  I  did  n't  know  what  manhood  meant  till  I  read 
"  Donald  the  Ghost  of  the  Gory  Locks." 

H.  I  prefer  "  Fanny  the  P'emale  Pirate  of  the  Gulf," 
it  makes  one  feel  so  romantic.  When  I  first  read  it  I 
longed  to  turn  pirate. 

f.     What  do  you  think  of  "  The  Gory  Locks  ? 

H.  It  is  too  sentimental  by  half.  The  heroine  ought 
not  to  have  died  without  revenge.  Do  you  remember  the 
Inurder? 

T.  Yes  ;  that  was  first  rate.  How  long  you  remem- 
ber what  you  read  I     I  forget  a  novel  in  a  week. 

H.  So  do  1 ;  tliat  's  long  enough  to  remember  it.  Do 
you  mean  to  see  the  eclipse? 

T.      What  eclipse? 

//.     Of  the  moon.     It  is  to  be  total. 

T.  No  matter.  I  shall  be  engaged  every  moment 
from  now  till  sunset. 

//.     It  will  not  happen  till  after  sunset,  father  says. 

T.  I  don't  care  ;  if  tliere  's  any  bore  that  I  particularly 
des])ise,  it  is  what  they  call  science      Deliver  me  from  it 

II     So  say  I.     Have  you  seen  the  divine  Fanny  ? 

2\  Yes,  several  times,  and  she's  first  rate.  Tliere  is 
more  science  in  one  of  her  pirouettes  than  in  a  whole 
Cyclopedia. 

//.     Have  you  heard  of  the  engagement? 

T.     What  one  ? 

H.     What  will  you  give  me  to  tell  you  ? 

T.     Half  a  kiss.     Who  are  tlie  parties  ? 

H     Sarah  Pratt,  the  school-ma'am? 

T.     No  !  to  whom  ? 

H.  To  the  Squire's  son  Pveuben.  A  precious  couple' 
he  never  has  a  word  in  him, — and  she  is  afraid  to  say 
her  scul  is  her  own.     O  dear,  what  a  precious  pair ! 

T.     They  both  pretend  to  despise  novels,  and  yet  there 


i 


210  FOWLE'S    Hl/NDRED    DIALOGUES. 

is  no  other  key  to  coiiversatioii,  no  other  door  to  the 
kaowJedge  of  human  nature  I  should  die  if  I  could  not 
converse. 

H.  Conversatioi  is  to  life  what  an  oasis  is  to  a  desert. 
Did  you  go  to  meeting  last  Sunday  ? 

T!   No  ;  1  wished  to  finish  "  The  Clandestine  Anecdote," 

H.  "  Antidote,"  excuse  me.  It  is  a  glorious  tale,  worth 
forty  sermons.  I  never  give  up  my  book  for  the  church, 
and  half  a  day  at  church  is  a  dose,  unless  one  has  a  new 
hoanet  or  a  pencil  for  billet-doux. 

T.'  Even  half  a  day  gives  me  the  headache,  when  I 
don't  get  a  nap. 

H  When  I  saw  Sarah  Pratt,  the  other  day,  she  had 
an  engraving  that  Reuben  gave  her,  and  when  I  asked 
wliat  it  represented,  she  said,  a  scene  from  Shakspeare ; 
and  when  I  asked  her  who  wrote  Shakspeare,  she  blushed 
up  to  her  eyes,  and  could  not  answer.  Now  I  should  like 
to  have  you  tell  me  who  did  write  it,  and  I  will  go  and 
mortify  her.     Is  it  a  poem  or  a  novel? 

T.  Neither,  I  guess,  or  Reuben  would  not  have  med- 
dled with  it.  It  must  be  some  dry  history  I  Is  it  going 
to  rain  ? 

II.  The  almanac  says  it  will  be  fair  and  cold,  and  I 
rely  upon  the  almanac,  though  father  says  he  prefers  his 
own  judgment  to-day,  to  any  body's  a  year  ago. 

T.  Fh'st  rate  I  But  fair  or  foul,  I  must  go;  for,  life 
would  burn  out  too  soon  if  I  indulged  longer  in  such  en- 
chanting conversation. 

H.  Come  again  soon,  for  a  sober  talk  of  this  sort  is  all 
that  keeps  me  alive. 

2'.  I  should  turn  oyster  if  I  did  not  interchange  senti- 
ments with  you  once  in  a  while.  I  should  be  "  like  an 
owl  of  the  desert,"  as  Bulwer  says.  Adieu  I  {kissing  his 
hand  to  her.)  Vive  la  conversation.  Adieu  I   {He  goes  out.) 

H.  O  dear  I  now  I  shall  have  to  vegetate  agam  for  a 
fortnight ;  for  father  can  only  talk  on  what  he  calls  use- 
ful subjects,  and  mother  reduces  every  thing  to  what  she 
calls  common  sense.  O  dear  I  I  was  born  a  hundred 
years  too  soon ;  but  I  will  go  and  write  all  that  Tom 
has  said,  in  my  Album,  and  Hve  upon  it  till  the  dear  fellow 
calls  again.     O  what  a  gift  the  art  of  conversation  is  I 


fowlb's  hundred  dialogues.  21 J 

LXXXV.    SCRAPING  ACQUAINTANCE. 

JONATHAN    BORER    AND    A    STRANGER. 
[Scene  — In  a  Missouri  Bar  Room. J 

Jona.  I  say,  stranger,  what  wood  is  that  are  cane  o' 
/OLirn  made  on  ? 

Sir.     I  don't  know,  I  found  it  in  the  road. 

Jona.  I  guess  it's  hickory,  but  can't  say  sartin  witli- 
out  seeing  the  bark.  Prefer  shoes  to  bojts,  don't  yon  .' 
So  do  1,  wlien  I  travel. 

Str.     I  have  no  choice. 

Jona.  Weed  on  your  hat,  I  see.  Lost  a  friend,  proba- 
bly. 

»S/r.     We  seldom  mourn  for  our  enemies. 

Jofui.     Wife,  1  guess,  by  the  wedtli  of  the  crape. 

Str.     No,  I  never  was  married. 

Jofui.     Sweetheart,  perha})s,  or  a  mother. 

Str.     No  matter,  you  didn't  know  him. 

Jona.  O,  a  mau,  was  it  ?  Well,  I  s'pose  he  was  a 
father  or  l)rother  or  some  sich.  Left  you  something,  I 
guess,  by  the  wedth  of  the  crape,  as  I  said  before. 

Str.     lie  died  poor. 

Jona.  The  deuce  he  did!  Well  your  case  is  a  perplex- 
ity.    Consumption,  hey? 

Str.     W^hat  makes  you  guess  so  ? 

Jona.  Poor  people  that  have  nothing  to  consume  gen- 
erally die  o'  consumption.  Stranger,  I'll  bet  you  a  new 
hat  I  can  guess  what  State  you  come  from. 

Str.  I  never  bet,  but  I'm  inclined  to  stand  you,  just  tc 
see  what  State  you  will  guess. 

Jona.  I  guess  you  come  from  New  Hampshire,  so 
hand  over  the  hat. 

Str.  Poh,  I  didn't  come  froin  New  Hampshire,  but 
from  Connecticut.     So  hand  over  yourself 

Jona.  Wliat  for?  I  bet  I  could  guess,  and  I  did 
guess,  did  n't  I  ? 

Sti .     Yes,  but  you  did  n't  guess  right. 


212 

Jona.     I  did  ii't  say  I  would. 

Str.     Tell  me  why  you  guessed  New  Hampshire. 

Jona.  They  call  that  the  Granite  State,  and  you  are  a 
liard  customer,  that 's  ail. 

Str.  Was  that  the  true  reason  ?  Come,  be  honest 
about  it. 

Jona.  No,  I  wanted  to  know,  and  calc'lated  that  if  I 
guessed  wrong,  you  'd  set  me  right.  I  did  n't  care  for 
the  hat. 

Str.     "Why  did  you  care  where  I  came  from  ! 

Jona.  I  had  a  kind  o'  guess  in  my  own  mind,  you  see, 
and  I  wanted  to  be  sartin.  I  thought  you  could  n't  be 
from  Connecticut,  for  you  had  n't  nothin'  to  sell. 

Str.  How  did  you  know  but  I  came  from  Massachu- 
setts. 

Jona.  You'd  a  told  on't  without  my  askin',  they  are 
so  all-fired  proud  of  their  railroads  and  their  schools.  Is 
that  your  trunk,  stranger  ? 

Str.     No.     I  have  no  trunk. 

Jona.  The  deuce  you  haint ;  why,  what  do  you  keep 
your  things  in  2 

Str.     What  few  things  I  have  are  in  my  handkerchief. 

Jona.  What  on  airth  are  you  doin'  so  fur  from  home, 
without  even  a  carpet  bag?     Not  runnin'  away,  be  you  ?• 

Str.     No.     I  'm  not  ashamed  of  my  business. 

Jona.     Schoolmaster,  I  guess  ? 

Str.     Why  do  you  guess  so  ? 

Jona.  Because  they  are  never  ashamed  of  their  busi- 
ness, and  always  ready  to  leave  it.  Besides,  a  reg'lar 
deestrick  schoolmaster  either  has  no  trunk,  or  a  big  one 
and  nothin'  in  it.     Tliat's  my  judgment  on  it. 

Str.     Will  you  bet  that  I'm  a  schoolmaster? 

Jojia.  No,  I  never  bet  when  the  other  party  knows 
sartin.  But,  don't  be  mad,  there's  no  disgrace  in  keepin' 
school  if  you  haint  wit  to  do  notliin'  better. 

Str.     I  can  guess  what  you  are  ? 

Jona.  No,  can  you  ?  I  bet  you  two  to  one  you  can't 
come  within  hailin'  distance  on  it.  Come,  don't  be  afeard 
to  guess,  I  aint  afeard  to  hev  you. 

Str.     I  guess  you  are  more 

JoTia.     Mormon  I     No,  stranger,  you  don't  guess  that. 


213 

Sir.  1  was  going  to  say  you  are  more  inquisitive  than 
polite. 

Jona.  Stranger,  this  is  a  free  country,  and  you  have  a 
right  to  answer  or  not,  as  you  please,  But,  if  it's  a  fair 
question,  what  meetin'  do  you  'tend? 

Str.     Can  you  guess  ? 

Jona.  Well,  I  guess  I  can.  You  don't  swear,  you  don't 
drink,  you  don't  bet,  you  don't  lie  that  I  knew  on,  yon 
don't  guess,  and  you've  no  things.  You  can't  belong  to 
any  old  denomination,  and  must  be  a  come-outer,  only 
you  don't  pretend  to  be  wiser  than  all  creation.  But  now, 
stranger,  to  come  to  business,  may  I  ask  what  you  are 
goin'  to  dew  in  these  parts,  for  nobody  don't  come  here 
for  no  thin'.  v 

Sir.     What  are  you  doing  hero? 

Jona.  Looking  out  for  chaps.  You  see  I  have  invented 
a  machine  for  chawing,  and  out  here,  where  there  ain't 
no  dentists,  I  calc'late  to  do  somethin'  considerable.  Talk- 
in'  of  teeth  reminds  me  that  I  haint  had  no  dinner,  and 
let's  toss  up  to  see  who  shall  treat. 

Str.  I  shall  re-treat.  So  good-bye  to  you.  {He  goes 
toward  the  door. ) 

Jona.     Not  mad,  I  hope,  stranger. 

Str.  O  no,  but  I  am  going  to  California  on  foot,  and 
have  no  time  to  lose. 

Jona.  You  don't  say  so  I  Why,  I  'm  bound  there  tew, 
after  I  have  sold  a  few  of  my  machines.  Let 's  club  and 
go  together.  I  'd  a  sold  half  a  dozen  before  this,  if  you 
had  n't  been  so  tight  with  me.  1  could  a  pumped  a  Bos- 
ton man  dry  half  a  dozen  times  while  I  have  been  scraping 
your  acquaintance.  I  '11  give  you  a  fair  commission  if 
you  '11  co-operate,  as  the  tarm  is.  Two  is  always  better 
than  one  for  co-operation. 

Str.  I  have  no  objection,  if  there 's  no  humtug  in 
your  machine. 

Jona.  Come  along,  and  let  it  eat  one  dinner  for  you, 
and  then  you  can  judge. 


214  fowlk's  hundred  dialogues. 

LXXXYL    JOHN  BULL  &  SON. 

JOHN    BULL   AND    JONATHAN. 

John.     {Seated.)     Jonathan  I 

Jona.     What  do  you  want,  sir  ? 

John.  Come  here,  sirrah.  Is  it  true,  as  they  tell  me, 
that  you  have  set  up  for  yourself,  over  the  water  ? 

Jojia.     I  '11  take  my  oath  on 't,  father. 

John.  What  do  you  mean  by  doing  so,  you  young 
rascal ? 

Jomi.     I  mean  to  be  free,  sir. 

John.  Free,  yoii  young  rogue,  were  you  not  free  enough 
before  ? 

Jona.  Not  quite,  sir.  I  wanted  an  almighty  swing, 
and  your  lot  was  too  small. 

John.     Too  small,  you  villain,  it  commands  the  world. 

Jona.  I  could  put  it  into  one  of  my  ponds  without  ob- 
structing navigation.  We  do  things  on  a  large  scale 
there,  sir, 

John.  Was  there  ever  such  impudence  I  What  do  you 
do,  fellow,  that  we  do  not  ? 

Jona.  We  hatch  cities,  father,  as  fast  as  you  do  broods 
of  chickens,  and  every  year  we  set  off  two  or  three  king- 
doms, or  States,  as  we  call  them. 

JoJtn.     What  do  you  make  them  out  of? 

Jona.     Out  of  strips  of  my  garden,  sir. 

John.     Why,  how  big  is  your  garden  ? 

Jona.  It  reaches  from  sunrise  to  sundown  one  way, 
and  from  one  end  to  t'  other  end  the  other  way. 

John.  Do  you  pretend  to  say  your  garden  is  large 
enough  to  allow  of  your  cutting  kingdoms  out  of  it? 

Jona.  To  be  sure  I  do.  I  have  set  off  thirty-odd  king- 
doms, some  of  them  ten  times  as  big  as  your  old  home- 
stead, and  have  staked  out  a  dozen  more,  and  having 
more  land  still  than  I  know  what  to  do  with,  1  have  coii.- 
cluded  to  invite  all  creation  to  come  over  and  take  a  lot 
"  free-gratis-for-nothing,"  just  to  get  it  oiF  my  hands. 

John.     The  deuce  is  in  you.     Why,  Jonathan,  my  folks 


KOWLE'fc    HUNDRED    DIALOGUES.  215 

are  all  running  away  from  me.  Three  or  four  millions  of 
Irish  bog-Uotters  decanjped  all  at  once,  and  the  Lord 
knows  where  they  are  gone. 

Jona.  So  do  I,  father.  They  have  all  squatted  on  one 
of  my  potato  patclies. 

John.  You  ungrateful  dog,  what  do  you  mean  by  steal- 
ing my  hands  ? 

Jona.  They  said  you  could  n't  support  them,  sir,  and 
I  thought  it  ray  duty  to  help  the  old  man,  as  they  call 
you. 

Jo?in.  Well,  Jonathan,  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
yourself,  when  you  grow  up? 

Jona.  Good  gracious,  father,  what  do  you  mean  by 
growing  up  ?     I  could  whip  two  of  you  now. 

John.     You  lie,  you  rascal ! 

Jona.  I  never  mean  to  try,  father,  but,  in  answer  to 
your  question,  what  1  mean  to  do,  I  say,  I  mean  to  gov- 
ern all  creation  one  of  these  days. 

John.  What  do  you  mean  ?  Do  you  expect  to  lord  it 
over  me  ? 

Jona.  I  guess  you'll  be  glad,  one  of  these  days,  to 
have  me  give  you  a  lift. 

John.     What  language  do  your  boys  talk,  Jonathan  ? 

Jona,  English,  sir,  better  than  you  speak  it  here.  One 
of  them  has  just  made  a  dictionary  for  you,  in  order  to 
keep  you  right. 

John.  The  young  scape-grace  !  Well,  Jonty,  how  do 
your  boys,  on  the  whole,  feel  towards  the  old  homestead  ? 

Jona.  They  are  proud  of  it,  sir,  and  will  never  see  the 
old  man  want,  or  let  the  farm  pass  into  the  hands  of 
strangers. 

John.  Give  me  your  hand,  Jonty.  They  told  me  you 
were  a  great  lubber  that  did  n't  care  for  me. 

Jona.  They  lied,  father,  and  if  you  will  tell  me  who 
said  so,  I  '11  make  him  eat  his  words  without  picking  out 
the  bones. 

John.  Come,  come,  you  young  rogue,  you  almost  beat 
your  old  father  at  boasting,  but  I  gue&s  you  '11  turn  out  a 
clever  boy,  after  all,  and,  one  of  these  days,  when  ray 
gout  is  easy,  I  may  walk  over,  and  make  you  a  call. 

Jona.     Do,  sir.     You  shall  never  miss  a  welc@me  froiD 


216  fowle's  hundred    dialogues. 

Jonathvan,  while  there  is  any  roast  beef  or  phim  pudding 
to  be  had  this  side  of  t  'other  end  of  any  distance.  {Jo/m- 
than  goes  oiii. ) 

John.     He's    my  boy  after   all.     Old.   John    Bull  will 
never  die  while  Jonathan  lives. 


LXXXVII.    DAMON  AND  PYTHIAS. 

DioNYSius,  77*6  Tyra7it  of  Syracuse. 

DAMOJM    AND    PYTHIAS,  Frie7lds. 

Dionysius.  Yonr  friend  has  not  returned,  and  the  in- 
strument of  death  is  ready.  What  think  you  now  of  the 
traitor  Damon  ?  You  will  repent  the  folly  that  supposed 
he  would  return  to  throw  away  the  life  your  suretyship 
prolonged. 

Pythias.  My  faith  is  still  unshaken.  Damon  will  re- 
turn, if  possible,  and  yet  I  pray  the  gods  to  interpose  some 
obstacle  that  can  not  be  surmounted. 

Dion.  '  T  will  need  no  intervention  of  the  gods,  for 
Damon  will,  himself,  create  the  impossibility,  and  leave 
his  credulous  friend  to  die  for  him. 

Pyth.     You  know  not  Damon. 

Dion.     I  know  human  nature. 

Pyth.  You  know  it  mainly  as  you  see  it  in  yourself, 
and  by  this  imperfect  standard  you  judge  others.  I  have 
known  the  meaning  of  true  friendship,  and  much  as  I 
hope  Damon  may  not  come,  I  yet  belieVe  he  will,  because 
I  would  not  fail  if  I  were  he. 

Dion.  '  T  is  never  safe  to  trust  the  best  beyond  the 
line  of  interest. 

Pyth.  You  have  not  known  the  best,  they  all  avoid 
you.  Else,  why  hang  a  sword  above  thy  head  by  a  sin- 
gle hair,  to  show  to  Damocles  and  other  sycophants  thy 
fragile  hold  on  power. 

Dion.  All  power  is  based  on  interest  or  fear.  All  men 
are  timorous  or  sordid,  and  Damon,  you  will  find  to  your 


DIALOGUES.  217 

cost,  is  both.     He  fears  to  die,  and  has  been  bought,  by 
gold  or  tears,  to  leave  you  to  your  fate. 

Pyth.  I  know  you  wrong  him,  and  am  almost  recon- 
ciled to  his  return,  that  the  false  judgment  you  pronounce 
on  human  nature,  may  be  at  once  refuted. 

Dion.  The  officer  approaches,  and  one  moment  more 
will  make  truth  manifest. 

{Enter  Officer,) 

Officer,     My  lord,  the  king  I 

Dion.     Speak  I     What  from  Damon  ? 

Off.  Nought.  And  the  offended  law  now  claims  the 
forfeit  head  of  Pythias,  pledged  for  his  return.  What  is 
the  pleasure  of  your  majesty  ? 

Dion.  That  the  penalty  be  enforced.  I  warned  thee, 
Pythias,  and  am  blameless  if  the  innocent  is  made  to 
suffer. 

Pyth.  Damon  is  innocent  as  I,  and  all  who  but  resist  a 
tyrant.  I  know  my  obhgation,  and  do  cheerfully  submit. 
Lead  me  to  death,  and  hasten,  officer,  lest  Damon  come 
before  thy  work  is  accomplished. 

Dion.  What  mean  those  shouts  ?  The  people  do  re- 
joice that  Damon  has  abandoned  Pythias. 

Off.  (Looking  out.)  No,  my  liege.  I  am  deceived, 
or  Damon's  self  is  here,  and  these  shouts  are  only  welcome 
greetings. 

(Damon  rushes  in,  and,  loithout  seeing  Pythias,  falls  ex- 
hausted at  the  feet  of  Dionysius.) 

Dion.  By  the  immortal  gods,  'tis  he.  Pythias,  thy 
life  is  saved. 

Pi/th.  '  T  were  better  lost.  I  pray  thee  now,  ere  he 
recovers,  let  thy  will  take  full  effect  on  me, 

Dion.  Hairk  I  he  revives.  (Damon  rises  on  his  elbow, 
and  says  in  a  hud  ivhisper  — ) 

Damon.     Am  I  in  time  ? 

Off.     Yes,  just  in  time. 

Dam.     Thajak  heaven  I     (He  sinks  again.) 

Dion.  Damon,  you  measure  time  most  accurately  to 
have  neither  a  moment  short,  nor  one  to  spare.  (The  of 
ficer  and  Pythias  raise  Damon. ) 

Dam.  The  bark  that  bore  me  back,  was  buffeted  by 
adverse  gales,  and  finally  was  wrecked  upon  our  coast. 


218 

Unwilling,  then,  to  lose  an  instant  in  the  search  of  horse, 
or  other  means  of  haste,  I  ran  unceasingly  until  so  little 
life  is  left,  its  full  extinction  hardly  can  be  death. 

Dion.  ( To  himself.)  And  tliere  is  then  a  bond  more 
strong  than  interest  or  fear.  How  little  do  I  know  of 
man  I  {Aloud.)  Officer,  leave  us.  {Officer  goes  out.) 
Damon,  I  give  thee  life  on  one  condition. 

Dam.     Name  it,  so  it  be  not  dishonorable. 

Dion.  The  condition  is,  that  henceforth  Dionysius  be 
to  Pythias  and  Damon,  what  they  are  to  each  other. 

Dam.  It  can  not  be.  Friendship 's  a  sacred  sentiment, 
and  not  a  name,  —  the  growth  of  years,  not  minutes  ;  the 
fruit  of  mutual  sacrifice ;  and  obligations  such  as  it  im- 
poses Dionysius  never  felt,  never  can  feel  while  he  is 
Dionysius. 

Dion.     What  say  you,  Pythias  ? 

^Pyth.  Damon  must  speak,  the  penalty,  alas,  is  his 
alone 

Dion  Then,  since  you  treat  my  offer  with  disdain, 
/ou  shall  be  made  to  feel  my  full  revenge.  I  doom  thee, 
Pythias 

Dam.  No,  no  !  Not  even  Dionysius  can  punish  friend- 
ship such  as  his. 

Dion.  1  doom  thee,  Pythias,  to  live.  Damon  is  par- 
ioned  unconditionally,  and,  if  Dionysius  can  not  be 
admitted  to  your  friendship,  he  will  at  least  take  care, 
tiiat,  when  the.  history  of  your  wondrous  faith  shall  to 
posterity  go  down,  the  future  voice  shall  say  that  Dionysius 
duly  prized  the  friendship  he  was  not  allowed  to  share. 


LXXXVIII.    TOBACCO. 

SAM,  an  inveterate  C hewer. 
BILL,  an  inveterate  Snuffer. 
DICK,  an  inveterate  Smoker. 
JOHN,  an  intimate  friend  of  the  others. 

(Sam  is  cheiving ;  Bill  snuffing,  and  Boh  smoking  ) 

John.  I  seem  to  be  the  only  idler  of  the  party,  and  it 
seems  to  be  necessary  for  me,  in  self  defence,  to  use  to- 
Ijacco.  Pray,  in  what  form  shall  I  find  it  most  pleasant 
and  convenient  ? 

Sam.  Chew,  chew.  Don't  be  so  ridiculous  as  to  tickle 
your  nose  with  it,  or  befoul  the  air. 

Bill.  I  do  not  see  why  it  is  any  more  ridiculous  to 
snufF  up  the  powder,  than  to  chew  what  you  can  not 
swallow.  I  think  the  ridicule  should  attach  to  the  smoker, 
who  neither  chews  nor  snuffs,  but  puffs  away  his  breath 
and  his  money,  and  has  nothing  to  show  for  it. 

Dick.  Better  have  nothing  to  show  for  it.  It  is  the 
show  that  our  opponents  abhor.  I  do  not  fancy  a  soiled 
mouth  or  an  inflamed  nose  myself.  I  take  a  deal  of  com- 
fort in  my  cigar. 

Sam.  So  do  I  in  my  quid.  One  of  the  bravest  men 
that  ever  lived  assured  me,  that  he  could  not  fight  with- 
out his  tobacco. 

John.  He  drew  his  courage  from  a  high  source.  I 
should  think  a  cause  that  needs  such  aid  were  better  let 
alone. 

Bill.  When  I  feel  gloomy,  I  take  a  pinch  of  snuff^  and 
there 's  an  end  of  it, 

Dick.  An  end  of  what,  the  gloom  or  the  snuff  ?  When 
I  have  the  blues,  I  take  a  whiff  at  my  cigar,  and,  yoa 
know,  there  are  two  ends  to  that.  After  all,  tobacco  is 
tobacco,  in  whatever  form  you  take  it. 

BiU.  Yes,  but  one  way  may  be  neater  than  another, 
or  more  convenient,  or  less  expensive.  For  my  part,  I 
think  all  these  advantages  are  on  the  side  of  snuff. 


220 

Sam  Especially  if  you  are  a  cook  I  I  still  maintain 
that  this  tickling  of  the  proboscis  is  too  ridiculous  to  be 
'sountenaiiced  by  any  person  of  common  sense.  As  to 
the  comfort  it  affords,  that  is  all  "in  my  eye." 

BilL     Better  keep  it  in  your  nose. 

Sam.  The  idea  of  being  comforted  or  inspired  by  tick- 
ling your  nose  with  snuff,  instead  of  a  feather,  is  perfectly 
a'')surd.     I  should  sooner  scratch  my  head  for  inspiration. 

Bill.  It  would  be  more  graceful  !  But,  Sam,  pray  teli 
us,  why  do  you  prefer  the  quid? 

Sam,  I  first  chewed  to  keep  my  teeth  from  aching, 
and  then  continued  for  the  pleasure  of  it.  I  am  never 
easy  without  a  piece  of  tobacco  in  my  mouth.  It  is  wife, 
children,  friends  to  me. 

John.  Is  not  that  the  excuse  of  the  toper?  He  is 
never  easy  without  a  dram  in  his  stomach,  and  his  wife, 
children  and  friends  are  closely  connected  with  his  glass. 
But,  Dick,  why  do  you  smoke  ? 

Dick.  It  exhilarates  me  and  settles  my  food.  I  feel  a 
deal  better  for  a  cigar  after  dinner. 

John.  So  does  the  toper  for  his  glass  of  brandy.  But, 
ray  friends  say  that  I  must  use  the  weed  in  some  form, 
and  I  am  quite  undecided  about  it. 

Bill.     Take  the  snuff,  by  all  means, 

John.  I  shall  wish  my  future  wife  to  do  as  I  do,  and 
in  preparing  food 

BUI.     You  don't  mean  to  marry  a  cook,  do  you  ? 

Sam.     You  had  better  chew,  John. 

John.     Who  ever  saw  a  decent  lady  chew  ? 

Sam.     Hang  your  wife  I 

John.  That  would  be  murder.  It  would  be  hard  to 
hang  the  innocent,  and  easier  to  abstain  from  the  abomi- 
nation. 

Dick.  You  will  have  to  come  to  the  cigar.  That  is 
neat,  and  rarely  gives  offence  to  the  ladies. 

John.  You  mean,  that  polite  ladies  do  not  take  offence. 
I  believe  that  no  lady  could  ever  excuse  any  one  for  com- 
pelling her  to  inhale  air  he  has  made  impure,  unless  it  be 
a  young  lady  who  hopes  to  catch  a  beau  by  smiling  at 
his  vices. 

Dick.     You  overlook  the  beautiful  sentiment  that  is  en 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  5^21 

forced  by  the  cigar,  I  never  see  the  smoke  ciirUng  upward 
witliout  thuikiiig  of  the  ascending  spirit,  and  as  I  knock 
tlie  ashes  off,  I  always  call  to  miiid  the  fate  of  the  body, 
"Ashes  to  ashes." 

John.  Beautiful !  but  going  to  a  funeral  might  produce 
the  same  sentiment. 

Sam.  Chewing  has  its  moral,  too  ;  for,  what  resembles 
the  lifeless  corpse  so  much  as  a  rejected  quid?  There  is 
always  a  smell  of  mortality  about  that. 

John.  There  is  a  mortal  smell  about  it,  no  one  will 
deny. 

Bill.  Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  a  pinch  of  snuff  is 
devoid  of  sentiment,  I  never  apply  the  cheering  powder 
to  my  nostrils  without  saying  or  tiiinking,  "Dust  we  are 
and  unto  dust  must  we  return."  I  never  sneeze  with- 
out   

John.     Without  what? 

Bill.     Without  feeling  moved  by  it. 

John.  The  sublime  morality  of  Tobacco  I  never  under- 
stood before,  and  such  reflections  must  exert  such  a  re- 
forming influence  upon  the  life  and  character,  that  I  think 
I  will  chew,  and  snuff,  and  smoke,  and  thus  make  sure 
of  the  great  salvation  that  must  come  from  such  a  source'. 


LXXXIX.    THE  STORY  TELLER. 

SQUIRE  DOUGHTY,  MR.  SLIM,  MR.  DRIP,  MR.  DRAG  AND  MR.  MEACH. 

Squire.  How  are  you.  Slim?  How  d'  you  do?  What 
news  have  you?  Who's  dead  or  married,  or  going 
to  be  ? 

Slim.  I  can't  say.  I  mind  my  own  business,  and  let 
other  people  mind  theirs. 

Squire.  It  does  no  good  to  worry.  Speaking  of  good, 
Slim,  did  I  ever  tell  you  about  my  meeting  with  Sara 
Smiiik  ?  Sam,  you  know,  is  a  pretty  good  sort  of  a  fellow, 
but  the  moment  he  does  a  good  thing,  he  runs  about  to 


222 


HUNDRED    DIALOGUES. 


tell  of  it,  SO  that  his  left  hand  never  needs  suffer  from  over- 
much curiosity  to  know  what  the  right  hund  is  about. 

Slim.     Well,  what 

Squire.  Wait  a  minute,  I  am  coming  to  it.  When  I 
met  Sam,  said  I,  "  Well,  Sam,  you  fulfil  the  scripture  still, 
do  you?"  "What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  says  Sam. 
"  Why,"  says  I,  "you  do  good  and — -communicate,  don't 
you?  "     Pretty  fair  hit  that,  wasn't  it? 

'Slim.     I  don't  see  the  pint  of  it  exactly. 

Squire.     You  don't  ?     Why,  don't  you  see  — 

Slim.  No  matter,  sir,  now,  for  I  must  run  to  my  busi- 
ness.    Good  day,  Squire.     (Ashe  goes  out,  Mr.  Drip  enters.) 

Squire.  I'll  pay  Slim  for  that.  How  are  you,  neighbor 
Drip? 

I)rip.  Indifferently,  Squire,  but  having  some  informa- 
tion that  I  wish  to  communicate 

Squire.  Talking  of  communicating,  did  I  tell  you  of  my 
encounter  with  Sam  Smink,  the  other  day  ?  Sam  's  a 
clever  fellow  enough,  and  always  ready  to  do  a  good  turn, 
but  he  can't  keep  his  good  deeds  to  himself  So  says  I, 
when  I  met  him,  "Sam,"  says  I,  "are  you  fulfilling  the 
scriptures  still?  "  "What  do  you  mean  by  that?  "  says 
he  "  Doing  good,  and  —  communicating,"  says  I.  Was  n't 
that  a  keen  cut,  hey  ? 

Drip.     Pretty  keen.  Squire,  pretty  keen. 

Squire.  Well,  do  you  think  I  did  n't  tell  that  to  Jerry 
Slim,  and  he  said  he  did  n't  see  the  pint  of  it ! 

Drip.  (Aside.)  Perhaps  he  had  heard  the  story  till  it 
had  lost  its  pint.  (Aloud.)  Shm  is  not  a  Solomon,  Squire, 
and  you  must  not  waste  your  pearls  on  him.  Any  com- 
mands up  town.  Squire  ? 

Squire.  No,  I  believe  not,  I  shall  go  up  myself 
presently.  [Drag  enters.) 

Drip.     Good  morning  to  you.      (As  Drip  goes  out,  Mr. 

Squire.  How  are  you.  Drag  ?     What  are  you  drag- 

ging now  ?     You  are  a  real  drag-on. 

Drag.  Ha,  ha,  ha  I  Very  good,  Squire,  very  good.  I 
am  always  doing  something  or  other,  to  be  sure. 

Squire.  Talking  of  doing,  reminds  me  of  a  remark  I 
made  to  Sam  Smink.  Sam,  you  know,  never  does  a  good 
thing  without  telhng  of  it.     So,  says  I,   "Sam,  you  not 


.     FOWLF/S    iiarMDllED  DIALOGUES,  223 

oii'y  fulfil  scripture  by  doing  good,  but  you  also  conirau- 
iiioate." 

Dra^.     What  did  Sam  say  to  that,  Squire  ? 

Squire.  Why,  what  do  you  think  Jerry  Slim  said, 
when  I  told  the  same  thing  to  him  ?  He  said  he  didn't 
see  the  pud  of  it. 

Drag.     Well,  I  don't  think  he  did,  Squire. 

Squire.     A  fellow  so  dull  as  that,  ought  to  be put 

under  guardianship. 

Drag.  {Aside.)  Any  one  who  could  make  such  a  pun 
has  more  need  of  a  guardian.  (Ahud.)  Good  morning,* 
Squire.      {As  he  goes  out  Mr.  Mcack  enters.) 

Squire.     How  are  you,  Meach? 

Mcack.     How  is  the  Scjuire  ? 

Squire.  Pretty  well  for  an  old  one.  Meach,  do  you' 
know  Sam  Smink  ? 

Meach.  Yes,  and  I  heard  a  good  story  about  him  just 
now.  You  know  Sam  never  does  a  good  action  without 
telling  every  body  of  it  ?  Well,  you  see,  Jerry  Slim  met 
him  the  other  day,  and  when  Sam  told  him  about  some 
widder  that  he  had  helped,  says  Slim,  "  You  do  good  and 
communicate,"  says  Shm,  says  he. 

Squire.     Slim  never  said  so. 

Meach.  He  did,  he  told  me  so  himself,  not  fifteen  min- 
utes ago. 

Squire.     Slim  is  a  liar  and  a  thief  into  the  bargain. 

Mcack.     How  so,  Squire,  this  is  hard  language. 

Squire.  The  fellow  has  stolen  my  best  story,  and  is 
passing  it  off  for  his  own,  before  I  have  told  it  fifty  times 
myself  The  dog  told  me,  too,  he  could  not  see  the  pint 
of  it.  He  shall  feel  the  pint  of  my  boot  when  I  meet  him, 
a  villain 

Meach.     That  will  hardly  be  "doing  good,"  Squire. 

S(juire.  It  will  be  doing  good  and  communicating  too. 
A  mean  dog,  to  steal  my  thunder  after  telling  me  there 
was  no  lightning  in  it. 


224  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

XC,    LOVE   AND   MISANTHROPY. 

HER-MIT    AND    MISANTHROPE. 

Mis  If  there  's  a  mountain  peak  that  human  foot, 

Adventurous,  hath  never  dared  to  chnib; 
That  the  bold  eagle,  seeking  for  her  young 
A  safe  retreat,  hath  hardly  dared  to  scale  ; 
If  there  's  a  cavern  in  earth's  dreary  waste, 
By  earthquakes  riven  deep,  tliat  the  chased  wolf 
Ilath  ne'er  explored,  and  that  the  light 

Of  curs'e'd  day  hath  ne'er  intruded  in, 

That  dizzy  height,  or  the  infernal  cave, 
Would  furnish  the  retreat  my  spirit  seeks, 
Where  human  foot  may  never  penetrate 
To  blast  the  eye,  or  paralyze  the  ear. 
I  have  foresworn  the  race,  and  would  consort 
With  beasts  of  prey,  or  birds  who  but  consult 
Their  native  instinct,  when  they  crush  the  weak 
And  innocent. 

tierm.     {To  himself.)     What  voice  of  human  tone 
Harmonious  breaks  the  stillness  drear,  that  long 
Hatli  brooded  o'er  these  silent  shades  I    The  sound 
Of  human  lips  is  grateful  to  my  ear 
As  pardon  unexpected  to  the  ear 
That  sin  has  brought  to  the  awful  precipice 
Which  human  legislation  spreads  beneath 
The  foot  of  crime.     Here  I  have  hved  alone, 
Unseen  by  man,  obedient  to  a  vow. 
In  evil  hour  assumed,  the  world  and  all 
Its  pleasures,  prospects,  promises,  to  renounce 
And  utterly  abhor.     But  I  have  learned 
That  the  narrow  path  by  truth  enjoined 
Lies  not  through  solitude  or  wilderness. 
But  wmds  its  way  through  all  the  crowded  marts 
Of  the  busy  world,  where  heart  to  heart  can  speak, 
And  where  the  thoughts,  all  occupied,  can  ne'er 
Find  time  or  opportunity  to  shrink, 
And  be  concentrated  vn  self.     {To  the  Misanthrope.) 


2^ 

Say  why  society  you  shun,  young  man. 
And  choose  the  unvarying  scene  these  solitudes 
Present-     Condemned  of  God  or  man,  I  know 
No  greater  punishment  than  may  be  found 
In  doing  nothing,  or  in  preying  on 
One's  sickly  self,  and  losing  evermore 
The  sentiments  that  intercourse  alone 
With  human  kind  can  quicken  or  perfect. 

Mis.  Speak  not  to  me  of  man  or  of  his  works  ; 

But,  if  thou  know'st  a  fearful  cavern  dark, 
Or  inaccessible  crag,  where  one  may  hide 
Forever,  then,  in  mercy  to  this  heart 
But  designate  the  spot,  and  I  will  rush 
To  embrace  the  only  rest  despair  can  know. 

Herrn.         The  rest  the  weary,  world-tossed  heart  desires, 
Or  that  the  guilty  conscience  asketh  for, 
Can  not  be  found  in  idleness,  nor  in 
The  solitude  you  covet  thus.     The  gifts 
Of  Providence  ne'er  cause  disgust,  but  when 
They  are  abused  ;  and  to  renounce  them  then 
Creates  a  void  more  dreadfid  than  before 
Existed,  to  be  filled  anon  with  ills 
More  keen  and  wearisome.     The  world  is  vile, 
But  in  the  wilderness  the  furies  rave 
With  tenfold  power,  and  a  retreat  secure 
From  all  their  scourging  never  can  be  found 
In  negative  virtue,  or  in  idle  grief 

Mis.  Thou  ne'er  hast  felt  the  raging  pains,  that  now 

Wring  my  torn  bosom,  lacerate  my  soul, 
And  make  me  hate  not  only  all  my  kind, 
But  all  things  else,  and  even  my  very  self 

Hertn.         'T  is  rare  to  find,  in  one  so  young,  such  deep 
Misanthropy  ;  and  much  it  doth  me  move  • 
To  inquire  into  its  cause,  that  I,  perchance, 
May  consolation  give,  or  balmy  hope 
Administer. 

Mis.  O  holy  man,  for  such  thy  kindly  words 

Betoken  that  thou  art,  thou  canst  not  gauge 
The  depth  of  misery  in  which,  plunged  and  sunk 
Beyond  deliverance,  I  must  ever  lie. 
Thy  love  hath  no  prescription,  and  thy  life 


226  FOWLt'S    HUNDRED    DIALOGUES. 

Hath  113  experience  to  enable  thee 
To  comprehend  the  ills  that  crush  me  down, 
And  shut  out  every  hope  of  earth,  and  all 
Concern  for  heaven. 

llerm.         Did  I  consult  my  heart,  and  all  that  stern 
Experience  I  have  known,  I  should  suspect 
That  thy  fond  heart  had  drunk  the  bitter  cup 
Of  unrequited  love. 

Mis.  Sure  nought  but  love  divine,  discernment  deep, 

And  superhuman,  could  have  thus  revealed 
The  fearful  mystery  that  shrouds  my  fate. 
True,  I  have  loved  as  never  man  hath  loved. 

Herm.         All  men  do  so.     I  too  have  deeply  loved 
As  never  man  before. 

Mis.  And  I  have  borne  such  griefs  as  never  man 

Hath  borne  and  Uved. 

Herm.         And  so  have  I, 

And  yet  survive,  prepared  by  sufferings  keen, 
Resembling  thine,  to  now  prescribe  a  cure 
That  shall  restore  thee  to  thyself,  the  world, 
And  all  the  duties  thou  would'st  rashly  spurn. 

Mis.  O  holy  hermit,  speak  !  before  high  heaven 

I  promise  to  obey  thy  dictate,  for 
To  live  is  death,  and  freedom  is  to  die. 

Herm.         Nay,  rather  live,  let  her  whom  thou  adorest 
Die  to  thee,  and  as  I  once  renounced 
The  world,  and  sought  the  caves,  and  found 
No  remedy,  let  my  experience  serve 
For  both,  and  both  return  to  the  world,  and  seek 

Mis.        Seek  what  ?  the  scornful  dames  that  cast  our  hopes 
Down  headlong  to  the  abyss  of  dark  despair  ? 

Herm.         O  no,  —  let  us  return,  resolved  to  seek— 
Each  a  new  love.     None  dwell  in  this  dull  waste, 
And  our  researches  can  not  fail  to  prove 
The  only  cure  for  hopeless  love is  love. 

Mis.             Come  on !  I  '11  try  the  recipe  for  spite. 
Adieu,  O  cavern,  farewell  mountain  height, 
Eagle  and  wolf,  the  eyrie  and  the  lair, 
Farev/ell,  farewell  I  she  lives,  and  I don't  care 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  227 


XCI.    NEVER  TOO  OLD  TO  LEARN 

MR.  GINSENG,  a  iicwlij  Retired  Trader. 
PROFESSOR.  EMPTiNGS,  a  Fashionablc  Scholar. 

Mr.  Ginseng.  You  understand  my  case,  I  trust.  My 
whole  life  has  been  spent  in  acquiring  wealth,  und  now  I 
have  it,  I  find  it  necessary  to  have  something  more,  be- 
fore I  can  take  rank  with  the  genteel  and  respectable.  I 
have,  therefore,  determined  to  learn  every  thing  that  is  to 
be  learued,  and  have  sent  for  you  to  place  myself  under 
your  instruction. 

Professor.     What  do  you  wish  to  learn  ? 

Mr.  G.  Every  thing,  I  tell  you.  I  have  kept  books 
these  forty  years,  but  I  never  studied  one  in  my  life. 

Frejf.     Yes,  but  what  shall  we  begin  with  ? 

Mr.  G  Begin  with  every  thing,  I  need  one  thing  as 
nuich  as  I  do  another,  I  might  have  inherited  something, 
if  the  oldfolks  had  died  young,  but  they  outlived  all  their 
faculties. 

Prof.  Shall  we  begin  with  Latin?  I  think  that  is  the 
basis  of  all  education. 

Mr.  G.  What  is  the  use  of  Latin,  Doctor  ?  Does  it 
make  one  better  understood  ? 

Prof.  O  no,  it  prevents  you  from  being  understood, 
and  so  gets  you  a  reputation  for  wisdom.  When  you  are 
with  plain  people,  and  wish  to  make  tlieiu  feel  your  supe- 
riority, you  have  only  to  throw  a  Latin  quotation  at 
them,  and  they  are  overwhelmed  at  once 

Mr.  G.     Then,  Doctor,  it  seems  to  ma  there  can  be  no 
use  in  studying  Latin  ;  for,  if  I  speak  to  those  who  don't, 
understand,  1  may  as  well  make  my  Lutin  as  I  want  it. 
If  they  push  me  hard  in  an  argument,  I  can  say, 
"  Iwpirutaris  in  oaknomis. 
In  mudeelis  in  claynoneisr 
or  whatever  else  comes  uppermost,  and,  as  they  can't  an- 
swer what  they  don't  understand,  there  will  be  an  end 
to  the  argument. 

Prof.  But  Latin  has  other  uses.  It  is  necessary  \o 
theologians,  lawyers  and  physicians. 


228  fowle's  hUx^dred  dialogues. 

Mr.  G.     Well,  I  am  neither.     I  am  only  a  gentleman. 

Prof.  Perliaps,  you  would  like  to  commence  with 
Logic. 

Mr.  G.     I  don't  know  what  it  is. 

Prof.     It  treats  of  the  three  operations  of  the  mind. 

Mr.  G.     Three,  I  thought  tliere  were  thirty. 

Prof  There  are  but  three,  Conception,  Judgment,  and 
Conclusion,  that  is  Universals,  Categories,  and  Conse- 
quences. 

Mr.  G.     What  is  the  use  of  it  all  ? 

Prof  It  is  indispensable  if  you  wish  to  convince  an 
opponent. 

Mr.  G.  Poh,  poh !  I'll  do  it  in  half  the  time  with 
my  purse.  There  is  no  argument  like  the  dollar.  Doctor. 
I  '11  have  nothing  to  do  with  Logic.     What  else  have  you  1 

Prof     What  do  you  think  of  Philosophy  ? 

Mr.  G,     What  is  it  good  for? 

Prof  It  has  two  great  branches,  Moral  Philosophy, 
which  treats  of  happiness,  and  teaches  us  to  moderate 
our  desires  and  passions. 

3Ir.  G.  Money  does  all  tliat.  There  is  no  happiness 
without  money,  and  desires  and  passions  are  effectually 
moderated  when  there  is  no  money  to  pay  for  their  indul- 
gence. 

Prof  The  other  branch  is  Natural  Philosophy,  which 
explains  the  properties  of  bodies. 

Mr.  G.  Poh,  I  know  all  about  the  property  of  every 
body  in  the  city.  I  was  a  Bank-director  more  than  thirty 
years,  and  1  know  to  a  dollar  what  every  merchant  is 
good  for. 

Prof  You  misunderstand  me.  Philosophy  treats  of 
falling  stars  and  comets  ;  rain,  hail  and  snow  ;  wind  and 
storms  ;  thunder,  Hghtning  and  hurricanes. 

Mr.  G.  Will  a  knowledge  of  this  Philosophy  enable 
me  to  regulate  all  these  things  ? 

Prof  O  no,  you  will  understand  them  all,  and  know 
their  cause. 

Mr.  G.     Don't  God  cause  tliem?     Come,  I'll  put  my 
old  Dr.  Scribbletext  against  you  or  any  man  on  that  point. 
Prof     What  do  you  say  to  Grammar  ? 
Mr.  G.     What  is  the  object  of  Grammar  1 


229 

Prof.     It  teaches  how  to  speak  correctly, 

Mr.  G.     How  does  it  go  to  work  to  do  tl  is  ? 

Prof.  It  teaches  the  analysis  of  language,  so  that  the 
subject  may  be  readily  distinguished  from  the  object,  and 
both  ii[om  the  predicate,  however  qualified  by  modifiers  and 
adjuncts. 

Mr.  G.  Any  goose  may  tell  the  subject  of  conversation, 
and  guess  at  the  object  of  it ;  and,  as  to  the  predicament, 
I  must  judge  of  that  when  lam  in  it.  Now,  you  see,  if  I 
wished  to  learn  to  swim,  I  should  swim ;  if  I  wished  to 
learn  to  run,  1  should  run  ;  and,  if  I  wish  to  learn  to  speak, 
I  shall  speak,  and  I  don't  believe  there  is  any  other  way 
to  learn.     What  else  have  you  to  offer  ? 

Prof.  Perhaps  you  would  prefer  some  of  the  lower 
branches.     What  do  you  think  of  Orthography  ? 

Mr.  G.  I  never  heard  of  it  before,  what  is  it  all 
about? 

Prof     It  teaches  the  power  of  letters,  and 

Mr.  G.  Pshaw  I  I  own  the  Complete  Letter  Writer,  and 
as  for  the  power  of  letters,  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Professor,  that  one 
talk,  face  to  face,  is  worth  a  dozen  letters,  any  time. 

Prof.  I  mean  the  letters  tiiat  enter  into  the  composi- 
tion of  words  ;  thus  p-e-a  we  say  spells  ^^ert. 

Mr    G.     Don't  P  alone  spell  Pea? 

Prof     Yes,  surely,  but  we  make  use  of  three. 

Mr.  G.  Does  Orthography  teach  you  to  put  three  let- 
ters when  one  is  enough  ?  1  '11  have  none  of  it.  I  have 
60  much  to  learn  that  I  prefer  some  science  that  will  re- 
duce three  to  one. 

Prof     Suppose  you  try  Chronology  and  History '' 

Mr.  G.     What- do  you  mean  by  Chronology  ? 

Prof  A  record  such  as  History  more  particularly  des- 
cribes. 

Mr.  G.  Does  it  describe  facts  that  are  to  come  ?  What 
is  past  can't  be  helped,  what  is  future  is  far  more  import- 
ant, and,  if  known,  might  be  prepared  for. 

Prof     Chronology  and  History  refer  only  to  the  past. 

Mr.  G.  Then  I  wouldn't  give  a  straw  for  them.  Do 
tell  me,  Doctor,  if  you  have  spent  your  whole  .life  upon 
the  foolish  subjects  you  have  mentioned.  What  I  want, 
is  a  science  that  will  cause  me  to  be  respected  by  those  who 

20 


230 

claim  to  be  my  superiors ;  one  that  will  make  me  feel  lessj 
awkward  in  genteel  society,  and  will  make  people  point  me 
out  as  a  good  citizen,  and  not  merely  as  a  rich  one.  Does 
any  ology,  ography  or  osophy  teach  this  ? 

Prnf.  Not  that  I  know  of.  There  's  an  old  book,  called 
the  Bible,  that  is  said  to  deal  in  such  matters,  but  it  is  a 
vulgar  affair,  and  will  never  qualify  you  for  genteel  and  re- 
spectable company. 

Mr.  G.     I  think  I'll  take  some  lessons  in  that.  Doctor. 

Prof.  It  says,  it  is  hard  for  a  rich  man,  like  you,  to  be 
saved. 

Mr.  G.  Does  it?  then  I'm  sure  I'll  study  it,  because 
there  never  was  a  truer  word  spoken  ;  and,  if  there  is  so 
much  danger,  I  '11  give  away  every  cent  by  way  of  insur- 
ance against  it.     Truly,  I  have  found  a  pearl  of  great  price. 

Prof.     And  I  have  lost  a  pupil  of  great  promise. 


XCII.    THE  POPE  AND  THE  INDIAN. 

[Note.  In  1493,  Pope  Alexander  VI,  one  of  the  most  vicious  of 
abandoned  Popes,  published  a  Bull  or  proclamation,  in  wliich,  "Out 
of  his  pure  liberality,  infallil)le  knowledge,  and  plenitude  of  apostolic 
power  ;  in  consideration  of  the  eminent  services  of  the  Spanish  mon- 
archs  in  the  cause  of  the  church  ;  and  to  aiford  them  still  wider  scope 
for  the  prosecution  of  their  pious  labors,"  he  formally  ^ave  them  "  all 
lands  discovered  or  to  be  discovered,  west  of  an  imaginary  line  drawn 
from  pole  to  pole,  one  hundred  leagues  west  of  the  Azores  and  Cape 
de  Verd  Islands.'' 

The  Styx  was  an  imaginary  river  over  wliich  it  was  necessary  for 
the  spirits  of  the  dead  to  pass  before  they  could  enter  the  abode  of  the 
dead.  The  ferryman,  Charon,  required  the  small  fee  of  one  penny 
from  every  passenger,  and  some  ancient  nations,  believing  this  fal)le, 
were  careful  to  put  a  small  coin  into  the  mouth  of  every  corpse  before 
burial. 

This  Pope  and  an  Indian  Chief,  meeting  after  death  on  the  bank 
of  the  Styx,  are  supposed  to  hold  the  following  dialogue  while  wait- 
ing for  the  boat.] 

THE    POPE,    INDIAN    AND    CHARON. 

Indian.  1  -din  right  glad  to  meet  the  man  who,  it  is  said, 
enslaved  my  country. 


231 

Pope.     Enslaved  !  I  christianized  it. 

I.  You  gave  my  country  to  the  Spaniard,  when  it  was 
no  more  yours  to  give  than  Italy  was  mine. 

P.  It  was  stipulated  that  the  Gospel  should  be  given 
you  in  return. 

/.  We  did  not  wish  to  pay  so  dearly  for  it.  What  is 
the  Gospel  without  independence  ? 

P.  You  were  all  heathen,  and  all  lost.  My  purpose 
was  to  save  you. 

I.     To  save  !     From  what  ? 

P.     From  sin  and  death.  *• 

'/.  Sin!  We  knew  not  what  it  was  till  seen  in  you. 
And  as  for  death,  it  has  increased  a  thousand  fold.  The 
Indian  knew  -of  no  such  crimes  as  thou,  the  head  of  those 
who  sell  the  Gospel,  didst  freely  perpetrate.  Methinks  we 
might  have  given  thee  a  Gospel  with  more  reason. 

P.  Thou  speakest  freely,  but  I  must  listen,  for  we  all 
are  equal  here,  and  must  be  judged  by  the  same  law. 

/.     No,  not  by  the  same  law,  but  by  the  light  we  had. 

P.  '  T  is  true,  and  all  the  light  in  you  was  darkness, 
when  I  gave  the  western  world  to  faithful  men,  who  should 
instruct  and  save  you. 

/.  They  did  neither.  The  light  they  gave  but  blinded 
us  ;  the  instruction  lay  in  bad  example.  Their  tree  of 
knowledge  bore  to  us  a  fatal  fruit. 

P.     They  did  convert  you. 

/.     Yes,  into  gold,  to  glut  their  avarice. 

P.     The  Gospel  was  above  all  price. 

I.  Even  so,  and  all  we  had,  land,  goods  and  liberty,  did 
not  suffice  to  purchase  it ;  it  cost  our  lives. 

P      The  Holy  Spirit  was  made  known  to  you. 

/.  We  judged  of  that  but  by  its  fruits  in  you.  '  T  was 
not  a  holy  spirit  seized  our  lands,  enslaved  our  race,  and 
thinned  our  tribes,  as  war  and  pestilence  and  famine  ne'er 
had  done. 

P.  All  this  ill  was  for  the  greater  good.  The  end  most 
fully  sanctified  the  means.  The  evils  you  complain  of,  in- 
cidental were  to  civilization. 

/.  Better  be  uncivilized  than  to  lose  home,  and  equal 
rights,  and  all  the  charms  of  liberty  and  hope.  The  Indian's 
Great  Spirit  authorized  no  such  injustice  and  oppression. 


232  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

P.     You  worshipped  him  in  ignorance. 

I.  'T  is  true,  but  our  poor  service  was  sincerely  offered, 
and  received  with  due  allowance  for  infirmity.  Another 
spirit  that  you  brought  was  all  material,  and  debased  our 
race  far  more  than  all  tlie  natural  sin  you  gave  us  credit 
for.  This  spirit  took  away  our  brain,  destroyed  our  self- 
respect,  unstrung  the  red  man's  bow,  and  dimmed  his  eye. 
You  claim  no  merit,  sure,  or  gratitude  for  such  a  gift. 

P.  There  is  some  show  of  reason  in  your  tauntings. 
When  I  gave  your  land  to  the  discoverers,  I  meant  it  for 
your  good,  but  Crod  hath  ordered  otherwise. 

/.  The  Indian  does  not, do  a  wrong,  and  then  attribute 
its  result  to  the  Great  Spirit. 

Enter  Charon. 

Charon.     Who  goes  next  in  the  boat? 

I.  I  go,  provided  he  {pointing  to  the  Pope)  does  not.  I 
will  not  go  where  he  goes. 

C.     Where  is  your  passage  money  ? 

I.  Here  is  a  mite  a  widow  gave  me  whom  this  wicked 
Pope  burned  at  the  stake  for  reading  the  Word  of  Life 
herself. 

C.  'T  is  well.  And  thou,  {to  the  Pope)  where  is  thy 
penny?  {The  Pope  gives  a  coin,  and  Charon,  after  exam- 
ining it  carefully,  says)  Sure  this  is  counterfeit. 

P.  'Tis  St.  Peter's  pence,  no  coin  so  current  on  the 
earth. 

C.     It  is  not  current  here. 

P.     I  have  no  other. 

C.     The  more's  the  pity.      How  did  'st  thou  obtain  this  ? 

P.  I  took  it  of  a  sinner  for  the  absolution  that  I  grant- 
ed him. 

C.  Not  only  counterfeit,  but  gotten  under  false  pretences  ! 
You  can  not  go  in  the  boat. 

P.  I  have  some  golden  keys  that,  upon  earth,  opened  or 
shut  the  gates  of  Heaven.     Wilt  take  them  for  thy  fee  ? 

C.  False  keys  too  !  Sirrah,  thou  must  be  a  rogue,  or 
appearances  belie  thee.  Get  thee  gone !  Let  me  not  see 
thee  on  this  bank  again.  Come,  Indian,  the  Great  Spirit 
waits  thee  on  the  other  bank. 


933 


XCIII.   IRISH  IMMIGRATION. 

MICHAEL  AND  PATRICK.     [_Scene,  in  Ireland,'^ 

Michael.  Well,  Patrick,  you  have  been  to  Ameriky, 
tliey  tell  me ;   and  how  do  you  like  the  counthry  ? 

Patrick.  Sure  you  ax  me  two  questions  in  one,  and  ny- 
ther  yis  nor  no  will  fit  both  on  'em.  Will  you  jist  be  af- 
ther  axing  one  at  a  time,  now,  and  don't  bother  me. 

M.  Botheration!  canH  you  answer  then  one  afther  the 
t'other  as  I  axed  them?  Which  was  the  first  ?  Sure  wasn't 
it  whether  you  had  been  to  Ameriky,  and  how  you  liked 
the  counthry  ? 

P.     Faith,  it's  an  Aden  of  a  place,  that,  Michael, 

M.  Sure  you  don't  mane  that  they  go  naked  like  bastes, 
and  live  out  of  doors  for  want  of  housen,  as  Adam  and 
Ave  did! 

P.  By  no  manes,  Michael ;  they  build  houses  on  pur- 
pose for  us,  and  the  poorer  we  are,  the  more  sure  we  are  of 
getting  intil  the  great  house,  Michael. 

M.     Do  they  fade  you  too  ? 

P.  Indade  they  do,  Michael,  and  clothe  us  intil  the  bar- 
gain.    They  understand  the  mattlier  intirely,  do  they. 

M.     Do  they  work  you  hard,  Patrick  ? 

P.  Not  at  all.  Don't  they  do-  all  the  work  theyselves 
for  the  sake  of  intertaining  us. 

M.  Sure  they  make  you  pay  something  for  the  inter- 
tainment  ! 

P.  Sure  you're  a  blockhead.  They're  so  glad  to  re- 
save  us  that  they  make  no  charges  at  all,  at  all. 

M.  Tell  me  the  whole  thruth  now  Patsy  dear,  and  do  n't 
desave  your  own  flesh  and  blood. 

P.  Howld  your  prate  then,  and  mind  what  I  'm  afther 
tolling  you.  The  very  moment  our  vessel  landed,  and  long 
before,  a  gcnthleman  came  on  board,  and  made  the  most 
tinder  inquiries  afther  our  health  and  circumstances.  You 
niver  in  your  born  days  heerd  so  kind  a  genthleman. 

M.     May  the  Virgin  bless  him,  and  all  the  like  of  him. 

P.     Have  you  any  money  ?  says  he,  amiable-like  to  Kit- 

20* 


234  FOWLE'S    HUI^DRED    DIALOGUES. 

ty  O'Jarnegan.  Not  a  blessed  ha'penny,  your  honor,  says 
Kitty,  says  she.  How  is  your  health  ?  says  he  again,  as 
tinder-like  as  her  own  mither  could  ha'  pit  the  question. 
I'm  va-ry  sick,  your  honor,  says  Kitty,  as  lady  like  as  a 
quane.  You  must  go  to  the  hospittle  and  be  cared  for, 
says  he.  If  your  honor  plases,  says  Kitty,  says  she  ;  and 
he  helped  her  intil  his  coach,  that  stood  in  waiting,  like  a 
genthleman  as  he  is. 

M.  You  don't  mane  that  she  rid  for  nothing.  Patsy. 
IS  jw,  don't  desave  us  with  any  of  your  blarney. 

P.  No  blarney  but  the  thruth,  Michael  ;  and,  when  it 
corned  my  turn  to  be  introduced  to  the  genthleman,  he 
axed  me  the  same  questions  only  different  you  see.  What 
is  your  name  ?  says  he.  Patrick  McCarroty,  says  I,  of  Kil- 
lingomalley,  your  honor.  Have  you  any  money  ?  says  ho, 
—  not  at  all  imperthinent  nyther.  Divil  a  ha'penny,  says 
I,  —  in  my  pocket. 

M.  But  you  had  money,  Patrick,  a  dale  of  it.  Did  n't 
you  sell  your  cow  and  all  your  furniture  afore  you  went  ? 

P.  To  be  sure  I  had  the  money,  but  not  in  my  pocket, 
Michael.  You  see  none  but  them  as  have  no  money  are 
allowed  to  ride  in  the  coach,  be  they.  How  is  your  health  ? 
says  the  genthleman,  says  he.  Bad,  indade,  says  I,  and  I 
gave  one  or  two  coughs,  you  see,  like  as  Kitty.  You  must 
go  to  the  hospittle,  says  he.  God  bless  your  honor,  and  all 
your  childer,  says  I.  Step  intil  the  carriage,  says  he,  as  he 
held  open  the  door,  did  he.  Sure  and  I  will,  with  God's 
help,  says  I,  as  if  I  was  sick  like  and  wake,  you  undher- 
stand. 

M.  By  the  Virgin,  you  did  n't  chate  him  so  asy.  Patsy, 
did  you  ? 

P.  Well,  Miky,  to  make  a  short  story  long,  we  rid  to  the 
hospittle,  and  a  palace  of  a  building  it  was,  and  no  dispar- 
agement to  any  counthry  sate  in  old  Ireland,  nyther.  And 
there  we  lived  like  pigs  in  clover,  only  they  bothered  us 
with  what  they  called  soap  and  warther  ofthener  than  was 
convanient,  and  they  would  n't  allow  us  to  kape  a  soul  of  a 
flay  about  us,  which  did  n't  seem  to  be  altogether  natheral, 
you  know,  Michael. 

M.     What  did  they  give  you  to  ate.  Patsy  dear  ? 

F.     Sure  did  n't  they  give  us  mate  in  abundance,  and 


235 

tbb  bes>^h  of  it  too.  Did  n't  I  ate  more  mate  there  in  a 
week  than  the  Squire  of  Ballarney  himself  ates  in  a  year  r 

M.  And  they  let  you  live  so  for  nothing,  and  kape  ail 
your  money  ? 

P.  To  be  sure  they  did.  And  when  we  got  well,  did  n't 
they  promote  us  to  another  beautiful  building,"^'  close  by, 
that  w  as  croAvded  with  the  like  of  us  ? 

M.     AVhat  did  you  do  there  ? 

P.  Ate  and  dhrink  too,  Miky,  and  not  a  blessed  thing 
besides.  All  the  inmates,  as  they  call  the  company,  are 
trated  like  genthlemen  and  ladies,  and  out  of  respect  to 
them,  to  save  their  faleings,  you  undherstand,  because  idle- 
ness is  no  recommendation  in  that  counthry,  the  palace  is 
called  the  House  of  Industhry,  though  the  divil  a  bit  of 
work  they  do  but  slaps  or  sit  still  in  it. 

M.  1  '11  go  right  away,  will  I.  But  this  blessed  minute 
I  remimber  that  I  have  n't  a  ha'penny  in  my  pockets,  nor 
out  of  'em  nyther.  Sure  don't  I  wish  there  was  a  long 
bridge  from  'Meriky  to  owld  Ireland,  that  that  blessed 
coach,  and  the  genthleman  behind  it,  might  come  all  the 
way  here,  and  take  us  over  for  nothing  ! 

*  Engravings  of  the  Hospital,  House  of  Industry,  and  other  build- 
ings erected  expressly  for  paupers  by  the  City  of  Boston,  are  displayed 
by  Emigrant  agents  in  Liverpool,  Cork,  and  elsewhere,  as  induce- 
ments for  the  poor  creatures  to  come  over.  One  letter  spoke  of  tlie 
Aims-House  wagon,  as  a  beautiful  carriage,  kept  entirely  at  the  ser- 
vice of  the  inmates. 


XCIV.     NATURALIZATION. 

PATRICK,  A  RETURNED  EMIGRANT,  AND  MICHAEL.       \_S.  ( ilH 

in  Ireland.'] 

Michael. — Tell  me  some  more  about  that  blessed  coun- 
thry, Patrick.  Sure  it  does  me  good  to  hear  about  it,  if  I 
may  never  partake  of  their  hospitality.  You  towld  me 
they  stand  waiting  for  us  on  the  wharf,    and  board  and 


236  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

lodge  us  for  notliing,  and  work  hard  to  intertain  us,  and  all 
this  is  beautiful,  Patrick,  saving  the  soap  and  warther  that 
you  tell  on.  But  Patsey  dear,  didn't  you  go  abroad  and 
see  the  countliry  and  the  paiple  ? 

Patrick.  I  didn't  set  fat  outside  of  the  public  house  for 
many  a  long  month.  But  when  the  winther  was  over, 
th^y  towld  me  that  the  State  had  orthered  all  the  towns  to 
resave  me,  and  I  must  go  and  visit  some  other  place,  and 
so,  you  see,  they  giv  me  a  suit  of  clothes  to  make  me  da- 
cent  like  for  company,  and  I  set  out  to  oblige  the  paiple  of 
rtome  other  town. 

M.     Well,  what  success  did  you  mate  with  ? 

P.  Fust  rate,  as  they  say  in  Ameriky.  I  had  hardly 
left  the  House  of  Industhry,  as  I  towld  you  tney  call  the 
place  where  ladies  and  genthlcmen  are  intertained,  when  a 
smiling  genthleman  comes  straight  up  to  me,  and  shakes 
hands  with  me,  as  sociable  like  as  if  we  had  sucked  the 
same  cow.  How  are  you,  my  good  fellow  ?  says  he.  None 
too  well,  says  I,  just  coughing  a  little  you  see,  to  kape  up 
appayrencies.  Are  you  natheralized  .^  says  he.  O  yis, 
says  I,  God  bless  the  bread  and  the  mate  and  the  praytees. 
But,  are  you  natheralized  ?  says  he  again.  What  do  you 
mane  ?  says  I.  Are  you  a  vother  ?  says  he.  Divil  a  bit 
of  one,  says  I.  And  would  you  like  to  vote  r  says  he.  To 
be  sure  I  would,  says  I,  if  'twill  oblige  you.  I'm  your  man, 
says  he,  and  here's  an  agle  for  you  if  you  vote  just  as  1 
tell  you  to.  It's  I  that  '11  do  the  thing,  your  honor,  says 
I.  And  what's  your  name  ?  says  he.  Patrick  McCarroty, 
your  honor,  says  myself.  And  how  do  you  spell  it  r  says 
he.  Just  as  your  honor  plazes,  says  I,  I  never  quarrels 
about  the  spelling  nor  the  rading  nyther,  says  I. 

M.     'Tis  the  divel  and  all,  that  same  spelling,  Patrick. 

P.  Well,  you  see,  he  shows  me  a  paper,  and  says,  can 
you  rade  that  ?  says  he.     To  be  sure  I  can,  says  I. 

M.  But  you  can't  read  a  word  of  writing  or  print,  Pat- 
rick, and  how  could  you  chate  the  genthleman  so  ? 

P.  Would  you  have  me  own  my  blessed  ignorance, 
when  there  was  no  more  nade  of  it  than  of  tayching  the 
pig  to  cypher.  Can  you  rade  that  paper?  says  he.  To  be 
sure  I  can,  says  I.  Rcide  away  then,  says  he.  I  looked  at 
it  kind  of  wise-like,  you  see,  and  then  1  said  to  him,  will 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  237 

you  just  rade  it  to  me,  your  honor,  for  as  I'm  a  christhian 
I  have  no  spectacles  about  me,  not  a  pair  of  them.  This  is 
a  gtificate  of  natheralization,  says  he.  It  belonged  to  Bill 
McGriglicnickery,  of  Ballymachooly.  Him  that  died  last 
week  ?  says  I.  The  same,  says  he,  but  you  must  swear 
that  you  are  Bill,  says  he,  and  that  you  have  been  in  the 
counthry  five  years,  says  he,  and  then  you  must  put  in  this 
vote,  says  he,  and  I  will  give  you  the  blessed  agle  for 
your  own,  says  he.  I'll  do  it  all,  this  blessed  minute, 
says  I. 

M.  Did  you  swear  on  the  blessed  book  that  you  was 
Bill  ?  ah.  Patsy,  what  will  become  of  your  sowl  if  the  priest 
hears  on't  ? 

P.  Sure  wasn't  an  agle  twenty  half  dollars,  and  would'nt 
one  of  them  quiet  the  priest  and  lave  me  nineteen  intil  the 
bargain  ?  Get  into  this  carriage,  says  he,  and  we  rode  to 
the  place  where  the  paiple  exercise  the  right  of  suffering  as 
they  call  it,  and  I  was  introduced  to  the  officer,  you  see,  as 
Bill  McGriglicnickery.  The  genthleman  then  took  the  stif- 
icate,  and  tried  to  pronounce  the  name,  but  not  sucsading 
very  well,  is  this  your  name  ?  says  he.  Indade  your  honor 
may  belave  that,  says  I.  You  have  been  five  years  in  this 
counthry  ?  says  he.  As  sure  as  your  honor  says  so,  was 
my  very  answer.  Who  are  you  going  to  vote  for  ?  says  he. 
Divil  a  bit  did  I  know,  Michael,  and  so  you  see  I  said, 
for  the  right  man,  to  be  sure,  says  I.  It's  the  wrong  vote 
you  have  there,  says  he.  Will  you  jist  be  afther  setting  it 
right,  says  I.  And  so  he  gave  me  another,  you  see,  and  I 
put  it  intil  the  box,  you  see,  and  then  felt  in  my  pocket  to 
see  if  the  agle  of  the  other  genthleman  was  quiet  there. 

M.  And  so  they  paid  you,  Patrick,  to  become  a  Native 
of  Ameriky,  did  they  ?  I'm  thinking  I'd  like  to  be  a  na- 
tive of  that  blessed  counthry  myself,  true  blooded  Irishman 
that  i  am. 

P.  To  be  sure,  and  you  will.  Didn  t  I  come  over  to 
invite  all  the  bhoys  I  could  find  to  go  back  with  me,  and 
choose  the  next  President  for  the  'mericans. 

M.     Sure  can't  they  choose  a  President  for  themselves  ? 

P.  Not  at  all ;  they  are  too  busy  at  worrk  intertaining 
the  like  of  us.  Besides,  you  see,  they  have  two  great 
parties  so  matched  that  nyther  can  bate  the  other,  and  so 


iiJS  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

they  call  on  us  to  settle  the  matther  agreeably  between 
them,  and  we  are  to  choose  all  the  Presidents  afther  this 
blessed  moment. 

31.  I'll  go,  I  will,  right  away.  But,  Patsy  dear,  I  wish 
J  could  rade  and  write  a  little,  jist  for  dacency's  sake,  for 
you  say  they  all  rade  and  write  there. 

P.  Botheration!  wouldn't  that  spoil  all  entirely?  If 
you  could  rade  and  write  at  all,  wouldn't  they  make  you 
work  or  taiche,  or  do  something  as  bad  ?  and  how  could 
you  swear  that  McGarrotty  and  McGriglicknickery  was  all 
one  to  you  ?  And  how  could  you  vote  to  plase  the  gen- 
thleman,  if  you  could  rade  the  vote  you  put  in  to  oblige 
him  ?  No,  Michael  dear,  we  must  let  them  do  all  the  writ- 
ing and  rading,  and  we'll  do  all  the  voting,  will  Ave. 

M.  It's  the  manes  I  want,  Patrick,  or  I'd  go  to-mor- 
row. 

P.  Sure  haven't  I  the  manes.  The  priest  paid  my 
passage  both  ways,  you  see,  and  he  towld  me  over  and 
over  again  to  promise  to  pay  for  all  the  vothers  I  could 
bring  ;  for,  you  see,  the  struggle  is  to  be  a  hard  one  next 
time,  and  he  wishes  us  to  save  the  counthry  by  all  manes. 

M.     What  is  the  religion  of  the  'mericans,  Patsy  ? 

P.  They're  all  Protestants,  Michael,  and  haven't  any. 
And  they've  no  fradom  at  all,  at  all,  for  if  one  of  them 
should  chate  or  stale,  divil  the  bit  of  a  priest  have  they  to 
confess  to.  But  why  will  I  be  wasting  my  time  in  talking 
to  you,  Michael,  when  you  know  all  about  the  matter. 
Now  go,  and  tell  the  thruth  to  all  you  mate,  and  let  them 
get  ready  to  lave  owld  Ireland  by  the  first  blessed  vessel 
that  eails. 


JOWbH'o    11..\DR):D    DIALOtiUwS.  239 


XCV.    THE  VIRTUES  AND  GRACES. 


BElilGION. 

PEACE. 

SINCERITY. 

FAITH. 

J.. 

MEEKNESS.  ^-^ 

NEATNESS. 

HOPE. 

G. 

_  PRUDENCE.      :; 

MODESTY. 

CHARITY. 

'<-' 

JUSTICE. 

PATIENCE. 

M 


[Ea3h  may  be  dressed  in  white,  and  bear  some  suitable  emblem,— 
Religim,  a  cross;  Peace,  a  dove;  Sincerity,  a  small  mirror,  &c., 
or  eai  ;h  may  wear  a  flower  indicative  of  the  sentiment  she  repre- 
sents. ^,,,     iJi 

C  RELIGION. 

Welcome,  daughters,  every  one, 
What  each,  now  the  day  has  run. 
Has  of  good  or  evil  done. 
Briefly  be,  and  truly,  said, 
That  the  record  may  be  made. 
Faith,  my  eldest,  please  to  say 
^     What  you  encountered  on  your  way. 

'iWvi   y^^J'-^'^  FAITH. 

7  Holy  mother,  in  the  street 

*^  I  chanced  an  infidel  to  meet ; 

Denying  God,  and  boasting  loud 

Of  this,  his  shame,  unto  a  crowd 

Of  youths,  who  drank  the  poison  in, 

And  found  apologies  for  sin. 

I  seemed  a  youth,  and  so  displayed 

The  proofs  that  all  by  God  was  made ;  — 

The  infidel  knelt  down  and  prayed, 

And  every  youth  upon  the  sod 

With  bended  knees,  acknowledged  God. 

RELIGION. 

'T  was  well,  my  daughter ;  better  far 
Is  kindly  argument  than  war ; 
The  faith  that  is  compelled  by  force, 
Is  mere  hypocrisy,  of  course. 
And  now,  dear  Hope,  we  '11  hear  you  say 
What  you  encountered  on  your  way. 


Hs 


<?10  fovvle's  hundred  dialcgues. 

0JX%^.'*'*^^J  HOPE. 

I  found  a  hovel  low  and  })oor, 
And,  as  I  looked  within  the  door 
I  saw  a  mother's  dying  bed, 
And  five  poor  babes,  to  whom  she  said  — 

**  Farewell,  my  little  ones,  'tis  hard 
To  leave  you  thus,  without  a  guard 
Or  guide,  when  I  am  lowly  laid. 
The  bitterness  of  death,"  she  said, 

**  Is  not  in  dying,  but  to  cast 
My  loved  ones  to  the  world's  rude  blast." 
I  drew  the  wretched  mother  near, 
And  whispered  Hope  into  her  ear,  — 
And  she  revived,  and  soon  'twas  plain 
The  lamp  of  life  was  filled  again. 

RELIGION. 

'Twas  well  ;  no  medicine  like  Hope 
With  such  despondency  can  cope. 
Now,  Charity,  we  look  to  you, 
^       ^  To  tell  us  what  you  found  to  do. 

'^  '<SSkK^f'   -  CHARITY. 

I  found  a  wanderer  in  the  road, 
Who  told  me  he  had  no  abode, 
And  all  men  shunned  him,  because  he 
A  stranger  was,  and  seemed  to  be 
Sick  with  contagious  fever.     Weak, 
And  hardly  able  e'en  to  speak. 
1  raised  Jiim,  nursed  him  tenderly, 
'Till  others,  from  their  fears  set  free 
By  my  example,  took  him  home. 
And  bade  the  wanderer  no  more  roam. 

RELIGION. 

Delightful  I  for  'tis  seldom  e'ei 
That  money  purchases  such  care  ; 
And  thousands,  who  their  money  give 
Ne'er  raise  a  finger  to  relieve. 
Come,  Peace,  sweet  daughter,  tell  the  way 
.  i  That  you  have  just  employed  the  day. 

o^(VU"'N  PEACE. 

0  I  saw  two  brothers,  who  had  taken 

Offence,  and  rashly  had  forsaken 


foavle's  hundred  dialogues.  241 

Their  homes,  and  to  the  forest  gone 
To  fight,  till  there  survived  but  one. 
1  took  the  form  their  mother  wore, 
When  them  upon  her  knees  she  bore. 
Before  the  world  had  chilled  the  heart, 
And  driven  the  loving  ones  apart. 
Their  souls  I  touched,  they  wept,  and  swore 
To  love  like  brothers  evermore. 

RELIGION.  ^ 

How  beautiful !  a  mother's  form 
Is  potent  to  allay  the  storm 
Of  angry  passions.     Now  'tis  due. 
Dear  Meekness,  that  we  turn  to  you.  *   . 

A.     /^^rzA  ,      .  .   MEEKNESS. 

In  journeying,  1  saw  a  child 
Whom  anger  and  revenge  made  wild 
Against  his  father ;  for,  severe 
And  cruel  treatment,  it  was  clear, 
Had  roused  the  youth,  and  he  had  vowed 
Kesistance,  and  with  fury  glowed. 
I  fanned  him  with  my  mildest  air, 
And  he  relented,  and  did  bear 
Without  opposing,  till  his  sire 
Subdued  by  non-resistance,  fell 
Upon  his  breast,  and  all  was  well. 

RELIGION. 

All  lovely  was  the  scene.     To  nerve 
The  soul  to  bear,  and  not  deserve, 
Is  highest  wisdom,  and,  though  late, 
The  victory  is  sure  to  wait 
On  gentleness.     Now,  Prudence,  you 
May  this  delightful  task  pursue. 


OxMX^ 


i  *  Hj^  V  ^  *^  PRUDENCE 

j!  found  a  father  hard  beset 
By  great  temptation,  and  as  yet, 
His  children  and  his  partner's  love 
Had  failed  intemperance  to  remove  ; 
And  spite  of  shame,  disgrace  and  cost. 
The  wretched  man  was  well  nigh  lost. 
In  dreams,  I  whispered  to  the  father 
That,  to  reform  the.  habit,  rather 

21 


213 


FOWLE  S  HLNDRED  DIALOGUES. 


He  should  remove  from  tempting  sin, 

Nor  hope  the  battle  e'er  to  win, 

Where  hostile   influences  reign, 

And  render  all  precautions  vain. 

The  father  left  ere  quite  undone, 

And  went  where  tempter  there  was  none. 

RELIGION. 

To  flee  from  vice  is  safer  far 
Than  waging  any  doubtful  war. 
Now,  Justice,  to  us  all  so  dear, 
v^C  r        \r)    U      ij-^  y^^^  recital  we  give  ear. 

'v«X..     ft  {f{f,4/ii^  JUSTICE. 

I  found  a  debtor,  who  no  way 
Could  find  his  creditor  to  pay. 
He  did  confess  the  debt,  and  said 
It  should  before  all  debts  be  paid. 
The  creditor  no  mercy  showed,  — 
The  force  of  no  excuse  allowed  ; 
The  debt  was  due,  the  man  a  knave 
To  run  in  debt,  and  he  would  have 
Justice  and  nothing  short,  and  law 
Had  closed  on  him  the  prison  door. 
With  gentle  accents  I  began 
By  hinting  to  the  unfeeling  Man, 
That  Justice  was  as  oft  displayed 
In  debts  forgiven,  as  in  debts  paid. 
And  only  as  he  should  forgive, 
Could  he  expect  e'er  to  receive 
Pardon  of  debts  to  heaven  o'erdue. 
Mercy  is  highest  Justice  too. 

RELIGION. 

'T  was  nobly  said.     To  oppress  for  debt 
One  can  not  pay,  has  never  yet 
God's  blessing  found.     Sincerity, 
What  good  report  have  we  from  thee  ? 

-        -      V  ",  SINCERITY. 

■i  saw  a  maiden  young  and  fair. 
Whom  no  companion  e'er  could  bear. 
She  worshipped  no  divinity 
But  that  she  in  the  glass  could  see. 
Vain  was  she,  proud  and  envious. 
And  would  forever  have  been  thus. 


243 


For  flatterers  praised  her  every  fault, 

And  did  her  vanity  exalt. 

I  told  her  candidly  that  beauty 

Was  not  complexion  fair,  but  duty. 

Good  looks  could  ne'er  for  pride  atone. 

And  vanity  must  live  alone. 

She  bowed,  and  promised  thence  to  be 

A  pattern  of  humility. 

RELIGION. 

'Twas  well  to  save  her,  for  the  muse 
Says  *'  Pretty  is  that  pretty  does." 
Goodness  of  heart,  ^Jureness  of  mind, 
To  plainness  even  makes  men  blind. 
Come,  Neatness,  let  us  hear  you  say, 
,     J       ^         .   *     What  has  befallen  you  today. 

(dpO>9^     J^'^^^lr^  NEATNESS. 

J  J  Dear  mother,  in  a  little  cot, 

That  might  have  been  a  fairy  grot, 

I  found  a  slattern  wife,  unneat 

Her  dress,  her  hair,  her  teeth,  her  feet ; 

Unwashed  the  children  were  at  play, 

Her  husband,  sad,  had  gone  away, 

Though  hungry,  yet  afraid  to  eat 

The  bread,  the  butter  and  the  meat. 

I  tidied  every  thing  I  saw. 

Showed  her  her  fault,  and  told  her,  more 

Than  all  things  else,  unneatness  chills 

A  husband's  love,  and  teems  with  ills. 

She  wept,  acknowledged  her  mistake, 

And  to  her  failing  seemed  awake. 

RELIGION. 

She  will  her  happiness  secure, 
For  neatness  husbands  will  allure. 
Neglect  of  it 's  a  source  of  strife. 
And  often  curses  married  life. 
Now,  Modesty,  your  turn  has  come, 

>y^      For  you  the  world  has  ample  room. 
a  ^^'^      ^^         '  —  I  L;  MODESTY. 

I  found  a  maiden  in  a  crowd 
Of  strangers  laughing  over-loud  ; 
I  saw  her  standing  in  the  place 


244  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

AVhicli  others  better  far  could  grace. 
Her  dress  exposed  her ;  I  could  see 
That  others  blushed,  though  blushed  not  she. 
Double-entendres  she  v/ould  hear 
Unfitted  for  the  virtuous  ear. 
Immodest  spectacles  she  sought, 
*'  They  do  not  hurt  the  pure  in  thought," 
She  vainly  says,  nor  once  perceives 
The  serpent  underneath  the  leaves. 
I  threw  a  kerchief  o'er  her  neck, 
As  if  I  would  her  bosom  deck  ; 
I  taught  her  as  a  sister  dear 
How  she  must  train  her  eye  and  ear, 
And,  ere  I  left,  a  charming  flush 
Assured  me  she  had  learned  to  blush. 

RELIGION. 

Indelicacy  will  not  do  ; 
The  virtuous  must  be  modest  too. 
Immodesty  man's  lust  may  move, 
But  ne'er  commands  respect  or  love. 
Well,  Patience,  you  have  waited  long 
I  hope  I  have  not  done  you  wrong, 
To  leave  you  last.     Now  tell  us  true 
Whate'er  has  happened  unto  you. 

k       Q*  ^^u''»  ''^S^'Ci '..'•■.        PATIENCE. 

■^|Lcu)U«<X  Dear  mother,  in  my  rounds,  I  went 

Into  a  village  school  and  spent 
An  hour  or  more.     The  little  brood, 
Inclined  to  evil  more  than  good, 
Vexed  the  poor  teacher,  till  she  grew 
Impatient,  and  declared  she  knew 
Not  what  to  think,  or  say,  or  do. 
At  last  she  seized  the  rod,  and  vowed 
That  any  one  who  spoke  aloud, 
Whispered,  or  left  his  proper  place, 
Should  beaten  be,  and  in  disgrace. 
The  threat  was  scarcely  uttered,  when 
A  little  urchin  spoke  again. 
And  as  she  raised  her  rod  to  smite, 
I  touched  her  conscience,  and  she  quite 
Forgot  h^r  wrath,  and  felt  that  she 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  245 

Was  acting  too  impatiently. 

She  promised  ne'er  in  haste  to  move. 

But,  patiently,  to  teach  in  love. 

RELIGION. 

Love  is  the  key  to  discipline, 
And  every  teacher  must  begin 
By  disciplining  self,  or  she 
A  perfect  teacher  can  not  be. 
Love  will  subdue  the  child  or  man, — 
If  love  can't  conquer,  nothing  can. 
And  now,  my  daughters,  to  your  rest, 
Each  has  done  nobly.  —  Each  is  best. 


XCYI.    THE  MARTYR. 

EMPEROR,    OFFICER    AND    CHRISTIAN. 

Officer.     My  sacred  Liege  ? 

Emperor.     Well,  what?     Why  comest  thou  ? 

Off.     To  plead  for  mercy. 

Emp.     Mercy  ?     On  whose  behalf? 

Off.  On  mine.  Your  majesty  has  ordered  me  to  exe- 
cute the  men  who  worship  the  nev/  God,  and  dare  deny  thy 
own  divinity. 

Emp.  Go  on.  Thou  wouldst  ask  mercy  on  these  bold 
contemners  of  the  public  faith  ? 

Off.  Not  so,  my  Liege.  I  would  ask  mercy  for  myself, 
that  I  no  longer  be  required  to  put  to  death  these  erring 
men. 

Emp  Art  one  of  them?  Has  the  heresy  reached  the 
officers  of  State  ? 

Off.  Not  so,  not  so,  my  Liege.  But  'tis  in  vain  to 
punish  men  who  glory  in  their  death.  The  extreme  severi- 
ty of  pain  can  not  subdue,  but  seems  to  add  new  strength 
to  resolution.  .  I  humbly  ask  to  be  excused  from  executing 
thy  just  wrath  upon  them. 

Emp      Hast  tried  the  flames  ? 

21* 


246  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

Off.  Fire  hath  no  terrors  for  them.  In  the  midst  of  it 
they  sing  triumphantly. 

Emp.     Hast  starved  them  ? 

Off.  Full  oft,  my  Lord,  and  still  the  latest  breath  tut 
prays  for  thee,  and  thanks  their  God  that  they  are  worthy 
found  to  sujQTer  for  his  sake. 

Emp.     Hast  torn  them  limb  from  limb  ? 

Off.  We  have,  and  when  one  arm  has  severed  been,  the 
victim  has  himself  held  out  the  other  in  defiance.  Such 
endurance  has  so  wrought  upon  the  public  pity,  that  rebel- 
lion and  a  rescue  are  more  likely  to  ensue  than  dread  of 
thy  displeasure. 

Emp.  Send  one  of  them  to  me.  I  will  myself  examine 
him. 

Off.  I  have  one  at  the  door,  the  next  on  Avhom  the  pub- 
lic vengeance  is  decreed  to  fall. 

Emp.  Lead  him  in.  {The  Officer  leads  in  the  Christian.) 
Who  art  thou? 

Christian.     An  humble,  faithful  servant  of  the  Em,  eror 

Emp.     Then  why  a  rebel  ? 

Chr.  I  can  be  true  to  thee,  and  true  to  Him  by  whom 
kings  live  and  rule. 

Emp.  'T  is  false.  The  Senate  hath  decreed  that  wor- 
ship doth  belong  to  me  alone,  and  this  worship  is  enjoined 
on  thee. 

Chr.  I  can  bend  the  knee,  but  not  the  soul.  The  faith 
that  is  in  Jesus  doth  forbid  no  homage  that  is  rightly  due 
to  Caesar.  ♦ 

Emp.     Caesar  is  God. 

Chr.  The  living  God,  that  nade  even  Caesar,  claims  oui 
worship  first,  the  higher  law  within  must  be  obeyed. 

Ernp.     Then  thou  shalt  die. 

Chr.  Death  will  restore  me  to  that  spirit  w'  ence  my 
spirit  issued. 

Emp.  Then  thou  shalt  live  a  lingering  death,  that  shall 
not  end. 

Chr.  Thou  canst  not  long  prevent  that  end.  My  God 
hath  well  ordained  that  all  shall  die,  the  Emperor  in  vain 
may  coantermand  the  order. 

Emp,     Dost  not  fear  death  ? 

Chr      I  neither  fear  nor  court  it.     'T  is  an  event  that 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  247 

soon  mnst  come  to  all,  and  oft  has  come  to  Csesars,  or  thy- 
self would  not  be  emperor.     The  true  God  never  dies. 

E7np.     What  wouldst  thou  ?     Live  or  die  ? 

Chr.     I  would  the  will  of  God  be  done. 

Emp.     Hast  thou  a  wife  and  children  ? 

Chr.     I  have — both. 

Emp.  Thou  shalt  see  them  die.  But  tell  me  first,  why, 
knowing  this,  thou  didst  not  e'en  deny  thou  hadst  them  ? 

Chr.  The  living  God  abhors  a  lie,  and  will  protect 
all  those  who  put  their  trust  in  him.  (He  looks  up  in 
prayer.) 

Emp.     {To  Officer.)     'T is  passing  strange  ! 

Off.  Such  are  they  all.  The  very  feeblest  of  the  women 
think,  and  speak,  and  die,  as  if  to  suffer  were  to  enjoy ;  as 
if  to  die  were  gain. 

Emp.  Christian !  what  wilt  thou  give  for  freedom  to 
worship  Him  whom  thou  dost  call  the  living  God. 

Chr.  Thy  power  can  not  prevent  it.  Thy  chains  can 
only  bind  the  body,  but  the  soul  will  still  range  free  in 
spite  of  them. 

Emp.     What  wilt  thou  give  to  worship  unmolested? 

Chr.     Gratitude  to  thee,  and  thanks  to  Him. 

Emp.  Go  then  thy  way.  Officer,  give  liberty  to  all.  It 
can  not  be  that  we  have  aught  to  fear  from  men  who  are 
above  all  fear  but  that  of  doing  wrong.  I  wish  I  could  re- 
store the  lives  that  I  have  taken.  Haste  !  stop  the  perse- 
cution, and  proclaim  the  Christian's  God  to  be  a  lawful  God 
in  Rome. 


XCVII.  ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT. 

ALEXANDER ;   PARMENio,  his  friend ;   philip,  his  physi- 
cian. 

Alex.  {Alone  )  'Tis  vain  to  feast  the  gods.  I've  slain 
a  hecatomb  already  to  appease  their  wrath,  bur  they  are 
helpless  as  myself,  or  all  averse,  and  the  great  work  of  con- 


248  fowle's  hundrf.d  dialogues. 

quering  the  world  must  now  be  given  up  for  a  mean  grave 
away  from  Macedonia.  Deserted  by  the  gods ;  the  only 
man  in  whom  I  trust  is  absent  on  an  embassy  to  heal  my 
foe.  I've  sent  for  him,  but  he  will  come  too  late.  Death's 
grasp  is  on  me. 

ENTER    PAHMENIO. 

Par.     Health  to  my  lord,  the  king ! 

Alex.  Would  there  were  healing  virtue  in  thy  greet- 
ing. 

Par.     How  fares  it  with  your  majesty  ? 

Ahx.  Ill,  ill,  Parmenio,  ill.  The  fever  riots  in  my 
blood,  and  my  swollen  brain  needs  vent. 

Par,     My  lord ! 

Alex.  Well,  what  ?  You  do  not  use  that  tone  for 
nought.     What  weighs  upon  your  thought  ?     Speak  out ! 

Par.     My  lord,  Philip  is  on  a  visit  to  thine  enemy. 

Alex.  Has  he  returned  ?  I  knew  already  he  had  gone. 
I  sent  him  thither  to  relieve  my  rival. 

Par.  He  has  arrived  this  moment,  and  this  letter,  {lie 
hands  a  letter)  brought  by  one  of  his  train,  concerns  your 
majesty. 

Alex.  A  letter  of  thanks  from  my  great  rival.  (Opens 
and  reads)  "  Let  Alexander  beware  of  Philip.  He  has 
been  bribed  by  thy  rival,  whose  life  he  hath  saved,  to  take 
that  of  his  master.  The  drug  that  he  will  give  thee  will 
be  instant  death.  Beware  !  "  'Tis  false  !  I'll  stake  my 
word  upon  my  foe,  my  life  on  Philip.  Men  do  not  repay 
such  kindness  thus. 

Par.  My  lord,  even  now  Philip  is  mixing  the  fell 
draught.  'Twere  prudent  first  to  seize  him,  and  then  test 
the  medicine.  I  pray  you,  therefore,  let  him  be  seized  and 
be  the  drug  examined. 

Alex.     He  comes.      Stand  near,  and  wait  the  end. 

ENTER    PHILIP. 

Phil.  Health  to  my  lord,  the  king.  Forgive  my  seem- 
ing lack  of  duty.  Filled  with  alarm,  and  feeling  that  no 
moment  should  be  lost  in  useless  salutations,  I  have  this 
prepared,  (offering  a  cup)  and  beg  your  majesty  to  take  it 
instantly. 

Alex.     And  this  will  cure  me  ? 

Phil,  It  has  never  failed  with  vulgar  lives  at  stake,  it 
will  not  fail  me  now  that  thine's  in  peril. 


i^' 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  249 

Par.     (Aside)  D3  not  taste,  my  lord. 

Alex.     (Looking  Philip  steadily  in  the  eye)  Philip  ! 

Phil.     My  lord. 

Alex.  (After  a  long  pause,  his  eye  still  fixed  upon 
Philip's)  Read  this  letter,  Philip,  (handing  it  to  him)  while 
I  drink.  (He  drinks,  still  looking  at  Philip  while  he  reads. 
Philip,  after  reading,  hands  hack  the  letter  to  Alexander, 
who  saySf)  What  think  you  of  the  charge  ? 

Phil.  No  words  can  prove  it  false,  the  draught  will  do 
so  instantly. — How  feels  my  lord  ? 

Alex.  The  load  is  lifted  from  my  brain,  refreshing  cool- 
ness checks  the  bounding  blood,  the  fever's  flame  is 
quenched,  as  if  by  magic.  (To  Parmenio)  What  say  you 
now  ? 

Par.  Pardon  the  zeal,  my  lord,  which,  in  its  love  for 
thee,  has  deeply  injured  Philip. 

Alex.  I  thank  thee  well,  Parmenio,  for,  thy  fears  have 
only  proved,  and  that  most  gloriously,  that,  bad  as  the 
world  is,  it  is  much  belied,  and  man  must  never  lose  all 
faith  in  man. 


XCVm.     SENTIMENTAL  CHARITY. 

SABAH,  JANE,  AND  KOSETIA. 

Sarah.  Why  are  you  dressed  so  strangely,  Jane  }  You 
look  more  like  a  beggar  girl  than  like  yourself. 

Jane.  I  wish  to  look  like  one,  for  I  am  going  to  try  an 
experiment  upon  our  friend  Rosetta,  who  affects  to  despise 
the  poor,  beggars  especially,  and  declares  that  they  are  all 
cheats  and  lazy  persons,  and  that  nothing  can  move  her  to 
help  one.  I  have  put  some  flour  on  my  face,  and,  with 
this  deep  bonnet  and  a  shabby  shawl,  I  think  she  will  nol 
know  me.  I  shall  sit  on  this  door  step,  and  you  must  noi 
betray  me.     Here  she  comes.     (Enter  Rosetta.) 

J.     Dear  Miss,  please,  is  your  mother  at  home  ? 

Rosetta.  Don't  dear  me  !  What  do  you  want  of  my 
mother  ? 


250 

J.     Some  assistance  ;  I  am  suffering. 

Tl.  She  has  nothing  for  you,  so  get  up,  and  begone ! 
(To  Sarah.)  How  do  you  do,  Sarah  ?  Has  this  gipsey 
been  trying  to  cheat  you  ? 

jS.     No,  she  was  just  making  me  her  confidant. 

R.  Confidant  indeed  !  ( To  the  supposed  beggar.  J  Why 
don't  you  get  up  and  begone  ? 

J.  What  if  I  say,  dear  young  lady,  that  I  am  unable  to 
stand  ? 

JR.  How  did  you  get  here,  then  ?  I  don't  believe  you. 
Besides,  those  who  have  no  delicacy,  no  sentiment,  and 
who  are  used  to  deprivations,  do  not  sufi'er  as  other  people 
do. 

J.  They  may  not  shrink  from  a  zephyr  or  weep  over  a 
trifle,  but  you  wrong  them  greatly  if  you  suppose  they  have 
not  feelings  as  keen  as  your  own. 

R.  Highty,  tighty !  here  is  sentiment  and  impudence 
together.     Come  pack  up,  and  go  home  ! 

J.  What  if  I  have  no  home  to  go  to,  young  lady? 
Shelter  is  what  I  came  to  ask.  Sick  and  huligry,  I  feel  as 
if  I  could  not  live  another  hour. 

R.  How  came  you  so  destitute  ?  -  Why  don't  you  go 
but  to  work  ? 

/.  When  I  was  W;^ll  I  could  not  find  half  enough  work 
to  do,  and  now  I  am  sick,  of  course,  I  can  not  work. 

R.     Where  are  your  parents  and  friends  ? 

J.  The  poor  have  no  friends  but  those  as  poor  as  them- 
selves. I  had  a  mother  once,  but  she  probably  starved 
herself  to  feed  me,  and  when  she  died,  the  landlord  seized 
what  little  furniture  we  had,  and  drove  me  away,  I  have 
sought  for  work,  and  found  none.  I  cannot  bear  to  beg, 
dear  lady,  and  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  asked  for  assist- 
ance. 

S.  Give  her  something.  Rosy  dear,  it  is  dreadful  to  be 
poor  and  destitute  as  she  is. 

/.  I  shall  not  need  assistance  long,  for  the  cold  has 
chilled  me  through,  and  I  only  ask  a  place  wt  ere  I  can  lay 
me  down  and  die. 

R.  Are  you  serious  ?  For  mercy's  sake,  let  me  call 
mother ! 

/.     Would  1  were  with  mine !     The  poor  only  seem  to 


251 

know  how  to  feel  for  the  poor.  Heaven  forgive  me  if  I 
judge  harshly,  but  knowledge  and  wealth  do  not  give  feel- 
ing. Dear  Miss,  I  trust  your  heart  is  right,  but  it  has 
never  bled.  "  The  heart  that  has  bled,  bleeds  as  freely 
again  as  the  heart  that  has  never  been  wounded." 

jR.  Poetry  and  sentiment  too  !  bless  us,  this  must  be 
something  more  than  a  common  beggar.     I  must  help  her. 

S.  Do  you  help  her  for  her  sentiment  or  for  her  dis- 
tress ?  The  good  Samaritan  did  not  wait  for  sentiment  be- 
fore he  helped  the  wounded  traveller. 

R.  One  does  not  like  to  touch  beggars,  and  they  are  an 
ungrateful  set. 

S.  You  seem  to  be  in  no  danger  of  suffering  from  their 
ingratitude. 

(Jane  pretends  tofaitit.) 

R.  O  dear  !  I  will  at  least  venture  to  take  off  her  bon- 
net. It  would  be  dreadful  to  have  her  die  without  assist  • 
ance. 

J.  {Looking  up  and  laughing.)  And  so  you  will  assist 
me  to  die,  Rosetta. 

jR.     Why,  what  do  you  mean  by  this,  Jane  ? 

J.  I  hope  the  end  will  sanctify  the  means,  Rosetta.  1 
have  endeavored  to  give  you  a  lesson  in  charity.  You  are 
not  so. hard-hearted  as  you  pretend.  Your  fault  is,  that 
you  have  wept  over  the  imaginary  sufferings  of  romance 
writers,  and  have  avoided  real  distress,  of  which,  cases 
abound  more  dreadful  than  that  which  I  have  feigned. 

S.  You  should  finish  off  with  another  sentiment,  and 
perchance  a  little  more  poetry.  Chateaubriand  has  some 
where  said,  *'  there  is  a  forest  tree  that  yields  no  balsam 
till  it  is  smitten  by  the  axe."  I  hope  we  shall  not  need  to 
be  smitten  in  this  manner  before  we  learn  to  feel. 

R.  You  have  given  me  a  hard  lesson,  girls,  but  I  have 
richly  deserved  it,  and  I  shall  ne\er  dare  to  refuse  shelter 
and  assistance  to  a  sufferer  again,  lest,  on  taking  off  her 
bonnet,  I  should  see  one  of  your  honest  faces  reproaching 
me  for  my  lack  of  benevolence. 


252  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 


XCIX     THE  lEISH  INTERPRETER. 

PiEKRE,  a  French  Canadian, 
Patkick,  an  Irish  laborer, 

Patrick.  O  here  is  a  foreigner  at  home.  Let's  spake  tc 
him  and  see  if  he  understands  his  mother  tongue. 

Pierre.     Monsieur,  voulez-vous  me  preter  un  cheval  ? 

Pat,     What  is  all  that  about  praties  and  shovels  ? 

Pierre.     Je  vous  prie  dem' en  preter  un,  monsieur. 

Pat.  Praties  again.  Does  he  want  some  to  ate  ?  Will 
you  just  be  afther  spaking  more  intelligently?  What 
have  you  to  say  for  or  agin  praties,  if  you  plaze  ? 

Pierre.  Je  vous  prie  de  me  preter  un  cheval,  s'il  vous 
plait  ? 

Pat.  Praties,  and  shovel,  and  play !  Faith  it 's  not  I 
can  make  head  or  tail  of  your  blarney.  What  do  you 
want  of  a  shovel  ?  Can  you  answer  me  that,  or  do  you 
mane  to  insult  me  ? 

Pierre.  Je  suis  tres  fatigue,  monsieur,  et  je  veua;  me  pro- 
mener  a  cheval. 

Pat.  Fatigued  are  you,  then  what  do  you  want  of 
a  shovel?  Why  don't  you  talk  betther  English,  youiooney  ? 

Pierre.     Monsieur,  mon  corps  et  mon  esprit  — 

Pat.  O,  been  on  a  spree,  have  you  ?  Well,  what  has 
that  to  do  with  praties  and  a  shovel  ?  But  no  matther,  its 
I  will  get  you  a  shovel,  and  see  what  you  want  of  it.  {He 
goes  out  for  a  shovel,  and  hands  it  to  Pierre.) 

Pierre.     Monsieur,  que  veut  dire  cela  7 

Pat.  Well,  don't  be  unaisy  now,  but  just  show  me 
what  you  would  be  afther  with  a  shovel. 

Pierre.  ( The  Frenchman  strides  the  shovel  and  pretend' 
ing  to  ride,  says — )  Comme-ca!  Monsieur,  Comme-ca  f 

Pat.  Come  sar  f  Come  where  ?  Sure  you  don't  ex- 
pect me  to  ride  double  with  you.  Who  ever  heard  o^ 
making  a  horse  of  a  shovel  ? 

Pierre.     Que  veut  dire  ce  mot  horrse,  sHl  vous  plait  ? 

Pat.  Horrse,  play,  —  play  horrse.  Sure  the  fool  calls 
a  horrse  a  shovel.     You  want  a  shovel  to  play  horrse  with, 


lOWLE  S    HUNDRED    DIALOGUES. 


253 


is  it  ?  Spake  at  wunst,  for  sure  you  are  mad  or  imperthi- 
n.ent. 

Pierre.     Un  cheval,  un  cheval,  monsieur. 

Pat.  You  stupid  one,  if  you  want  a  horrse,  why  don't 
you  call  a  horrse  a  horrse  at  wunst.  But  what  the  horrse 
has  to  do  with  the  praties  is  more  nor  I  know.  Tlie  poor 
craturis  mad  and  must  be  minded.  Oive  me  the  shovel, 
sir,  if  you  plaze,  (he  takes  it,)  and  just  follow  me,  and  I'll 
tache  you  Ihe  distinction  betwane  a  horrse  and  a  shovel. 
What  a  pity  he  can  not  spake  English  correctly,  as  the  like 
of  us  does.     Call  a  horrse  a  shovel,  huh ! 


Cheval,  pronounced  Shval,  French  for  horse. 


Priter, 

Plait 

Demande, 

Esprit 

Comme-ga, 


Pray- tap, 

Play, 

Dmand, 

Espree, 

Cwn-sah, 


to  lend. 


ask. 

mind. 

so. 


C.     THE   BITER    BIT. 


KEEN,  MOORE  AND  GAMBLE. 


Moore.  Your  request  is  a  strange  one.  You  know  I 
never  bet. 

Keen.  True,  but  I  hope  you  will  oblige  me  this  once. 
You  know  Gamble  lives  by  iJetting,  and  has  the  credit  of 
resorting  to  very  unfair  means.  He  is  to  dine  with  you 
to-day,  and  will  not  be  here  an  hour,  before  he  will  try  to 
draw  you  into  a  bet  about  the  height  of  your  table.  All 
I  have  to  say  is,  take  whatever  bet  he  offers. 

Moore.  I  will  do  so  to  oblige  ^ou,  but  if  he  is  such  a 
gamester,  I  must  be  sure  to  lose. 

Keen.     Trust  to  me.     There  he  comes. 

ENTER    GAMBLE. 

Gamble:       How  are  ycu  Moore  ?    how  are  you  Keen  ? 


254 

what   are  you  looking  at  ?  —  that  table  ?      I  ine    pattern 
isn't  it  ?  rather  high  though,  too  high  for  convenience. 

Moore.  How  so  ?  I  thought  it  just  right  when  I  ordered 
it.     Two  feet  and-a-half  is  the  established  rule. 

Gamble.     This  is  more  than  thirty  inches. 

Moore.     I  think  not,  though  I  never  measured  it. 

Gamble.  I'll  bet  you  a  hundred  guineas  it  is  thirty-one 
inches  high  at  least. 

Moore.     You  know  I  never  bet. 

Gamble.  Then  you  have  no  faith  in  your  opinion.  I 
say  that  table  is  not  less  than  thirty-one  inches  high,  and 
I  will  back  my  judgment  with  a  hundred  guineas. 

Moore.  If  I  bet,  I  must  do  the  thing  handsomely.  Say 
a  thousand,  and  I  will  stand  you. 

Gamble.  (Joyfully.)  Done !  Plank  your  money.  (He 
lays  down  bills.)  There  is  mine.  Keen  you  shall  hold  the 
stakes. 

Moore.  {Laying  down  the  bills.)  There  you  have  it. 
Now  for  the  measurement. 

Gamble.  Where's  your  rule  ?  (Moore  brings  a  yard- 
stick, and  Keen,  after  measuring,  says.) 

Keen.     There  are  but  thirty  inches. 

Gamble.  You  must  be  wrong.  My  eye  never  deceives 
me.  Let  me  try.  (He  measures,  and  fading  it  but  thirty 
inches,  says)  Your  rule  can't  be  true.  Here,  I  happen  to 
have  one  in  my  pocket.  (He  takes  it  out,  and  measuring, 
says,)  Only  thirty,  by  St.  George  the  Fourth  !  What  can 
this  mean !  how  could  I  mistake  so  ! 

Keen.  You  acknowledge  it  lost,  do  you  ?  Shall  I  hand 
over  the  money  to  Moore  ? 

Gamble.  Yes,  a  bet  is  a  bet.  But  I  would  give  a  hun- 
dred guineas  to  know  how  I  made  such  a  mistake. 

Keen.     Plank  the  money,  and  I'll  tell  you. 

Gamble.  (  Taking  out  the  money  and  giving  it  to  Moore 
to  hold.)     There,  now  explain.     How  was  it? 

Keen.  When  you  were  here  last  evening,  I  saw  you 
measure  the  height  of  the  table.  You  found  it,  as  I  did 
afterwards,  just  thirty-one  inches. 

Gamble.     Well,  how  came  it  thirty,  then  ? 

Keen.     I  sawed  off  one  inch  just  now,  and  one  from  thirty- 


DIALOGUES.  255 

one  leaves  thirty.     Moore,  hand  over  the  money,  I  think 
Gamble  must  be  satisfied  with  the  explanation. 

Gamble.     Perfectly  satisfied.     Good  morning.     {He  goes 
out  hastily.^ 

Moore.     This  is  too   good  a  joke,   Keen,  but  we  must 
return  the  money. 

Keen.     No,  Gamble  has  forfeited  it.     Let  us  give  it  to 
the  Orphan  Charity  School. 

Moore.     Good,  and  on  this  condition,  that  the  first  table 
the  orphans  learn  shall  be  that  of  Long  Measure : 
12  inches  make  a  foot, 
30  inches  make  a  leg. 


CI     THE    TRUE    MAN'S    WORK    NEVER 
DONE. 

PHILIP  BONSON  AND  ROBERT  PLAINSET. 

Rol.  Well,  Philip,  what  has  thee  done  to-day,  that  is 
worth  relating  ? 

Phil.  O,  neighbor  Robert,  I  have  not  seen  or  heard 
any  thing.  I  am  tired  to  death  with  having  nothing  to 
do. 

Roh.  Has  thee  nothing  to  do  ?  Thee  is  to  be  pitied  ; 
but  art  thou  sure  thou  hast  looked  out  for  work  ? 

Phil,     Looked  out  for  it,  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Roh.  Thou  hast  money,  Philip,  and  hast  given  up  busi- 
ness, but  I  hope  thee  has  not  given  up  work. 

Phil.  I  have  nothing  to  do  now,  and  am  sorry  I  ev-^r 
gave  up  work. 

Roh.  I  hoped  thee  had  only  changed  thy  business,  and 
not  given  it  up. 

Phil.  What  do  you  mean?  surely  you  did  not  suppose 
I  was  going  into  a  new  line  of  business,  after  having  made 
a  fortune. 

Roh.  1  supposed  thy  fortune  was  only  a  capital  to  be 
employed  in  a  new  undertaking. 


256 

Phil.  Nothing  could  be  farther  from  my  thoughts.  But, 
Robert,  you  must  be  crazy  to  suppose  I  would  go  into  busi- 
ness again.  What  is  there  that  I  could  do  at  any  profit, 
and  without  too  much  risk  ? 

Roh.  Does  thee  expect  to  carry  thy  property  with  thee 
to  the  other  world  ? 

Phil.     No  ;  I  know  I  must  leave  it  at  the  grave. 

Rob.  Does  not  thee  mean  to  transfer  it  to  the  bank 
above  ? 

Phil.     Transfer  it !  what  do  you  mean,  Robert  ? 

Rob.  Thou  hast  poor  neighbors  who  can  be  made  happy, 
and  perhaps  saved  from  crime,  by  a  little  of  thy  surplus 
wealth.  Thee  must  not  say  thee  has  nothing  to  do,  while 
thee  can  find  any  sufferers. 

Phil.  Bravo,  neighbor  !  Can't  you  find  me  some  more 
work  ? 

Rob.  There  are  many  who  endure  grievous  wrongs,  and 
mi^ht  be  saved  from  oppression  by  sums  which  thou 
woaldst  hardly  miss. 

Phil.     Go  on ;  I  am  likely  to  have  my  hands  full. 

Rob.  The  world  is  full  of  wickedness  and  sin,  and  thee 
might  do  much  to  check  it,  by  thy  personal  efforts,  as  well 
as  by  thy  money. 

Phil.  Well  done,  go  on.  Work  for  the  hands  as  well 
as  the  purse. 

Rob.  God  wills  that  every  generation  shall  grow  mser 
and  better,  but  how  is  progress  to  be  made  without  means 
and  effort  ?  Thee  can  do  much  to  help  on  the  work  of  im- 
provement. 

Phil.  You  have  cut  out  work  enough  for  me.  That 
win  do. 

Rob.  The  greatest  and  most  important  work  remains 
untold. 

Phil.     Let  me  have  it,  then. 

Rob.  Thee  has  a  mind  to  be  instructed,  and  a  heart  to 
be  cultivated.  It  ill  becomes  me  to  say  this  to  thee,  Philip, 
but  I  have  been  moved  to  speak  frankly,  although  I  felt 
that  every  word  I  said  might  be  applied  to  my  own  short 
comings.  I  could  not  bear  to  hear  thee  say  thee  had  no- 
thing to  do. 

Phil.     Robert,  I  have  but  one"  word  to  say  to  you. 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  257 

Roh.     Thee  is  not  offended,  I  hope. 

Phil.  No,  indeed  ;  but  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  do  all 
the  woik  you  have  cut  out  for  me.  Yet  I  am  determined 
to  set  about  it,  and  do  all  I  can,  upon  one  condition. 

Rob.     What  is  that,  Philip  ? 

Phil.     It  is  that  you  will  work  with  me,  and  help  me. 

Rob.     The  good  Lord  knows  I  will  do  that  cheerfully. 

Phil.  Let  us  begin  immediately.  I  only  regret  that 
you  did  not  tell  me  sooner  what  an  idle  fellow  I  was. 
There  !  there  goes  the  widow  Hardstruggle.  Follow  her, 
and  see  what  she  wants,  and  furnish  her  on  my  account ; 
meantime,  I'll  go  down  to  the  village  school,  and  see  if  the 
building  and  the  teacher  are  as  good  as  money  can  procure. 
Nothing  to  do !  Bless  my  soul,  there  is  every  thing  to  do, 
and  not  a  moment  to  be  lost.     Why  didn't  I  begin  sooner  ? 

Rob.  Be  patient  and  active,  and  thee  may  make  large 
transfers  yet. 


CIL     THE  BLUE  STOCKINGS. 

MISS    MINERVA    ATTICK    AND    MISS    DIANA    SKYBLUE. 

Min.  It  is  of  but  little  use,  my  dear  Diana,  to  court  the 
muses  as  we  do,  in  this  age  of  brass.  My  last  Idyl,  which 
Theocritus  would  not  have  been  ashamed  to  own,  has  been 
lost  upon  this  community. 

Dian.  And  my  last  version  found  no  one  to  estimate  its 
beauties.  Nay,  when  I  inquired  of  Mrs.  Homespun,  who 
is  said  to  be  a  great  reader,  if  she  had  read  my  version  of 
Anacreon,  the  barbarian  coolly  inquired  who  Anacreon 
was. 

Min.  A  brute.  If  you  had  asked  her  how  many  fekeins 
of  yarn  it  took  to  knit  a  pair  of  stockings,  she  would  have 
told  you  in  an  instant. 

Dian.  The  creature  made  one  remark  which  would  have 
ghown  some  wit,  had  she  not  intended  it  as  a  hit  for  us.  t 
saw  liei  knitting,  and  iisked  her  what  color   she   preferred. 


258  FOWLe's    HUNt)RED    DIALOGUES. 

"  I  like  any  color  but  blue,"  said  she,  witb  a  glance  at  m^ 
feet,  as  if  my  stockings  were  not  white,  or  once  white. 

Min.  Your  experience  is  not  very  different  from  mine. 
When  I  called  on  Mrs.  Trimsharp,  the  other  day,  she  in- 
quired how  I  was  occupying  my  time,  and  when  I  said  1 
was  preparing  a  new  Idyl,  the  Scythian  remarked  that  she 
was  never  Idle. 

Dian.     And  yet  your  verses  are  beautiful. 

Min.     And  yours  are  models. 

Dian.     I  have  wasted  a  great  deal  of  oil  upon  them. 

Min.  Mine  are  not  fit  to  be  burned  as  offerings  to 
yours. 

Dian.  I  may  have  drank  deeply  of  Helicon,  but  your 
verses  alone  flow  with  the  music  of  the  muse's  fountain. 

Min.  What  does  our  poetry  avail,  if  nobody  is  aware 
of  its  rare  worth  ?  When  I  accidentally  dropped  a  few 
words  of  Greek  at  Mrs.  Dobson's,  the  other  day,  she  asked 
me  if  I  did  not  find  my  classical  studies  encroach  upon  my 
domestic  duties,  as  if  I  cared  for  that !  and  when  I  spoke 
of  the  midnight  oil,  the  savage  creature  pointed  at  a  large 
grease-spot  on  my  dress,  and  asked  if  that  was  a  drop  of  it. 
If  one  did  not  pity  such  ignorance,  one  would  go  mad. 

Dian.  Worse  than  that,  a  young  housekeeper  asked  me, 
ihe  other  day,  what  was  the  use  of  one's  learning,  if  one 
could  not  use  one's  needle,  and  keep  one's  self  decent, 
and  then  the  creatui-e  fixed  her  eyes  upon  a  rent  in  my 
dress,  that  I  had  neglected  while  my  Anacreon  was  in  pro- 
gress. 

Min.  That  hippogriffe,  Mrs.  Vincent,  one  day  fixed  her 
eye  upon  a  spot  on  my  bonnet,  and  I  was  obliged,  at  last, 
to  say  that  it  was  a  drop  of  Macassar  that  I  could  not  re- 
move. Then  the  monster  told  me  if  there  were  no  recei-^  ts 
to  remove  such  spots  in  Theocritus,  I  could  find  some  good 
ones  in  the  cook  books. 

Dian.  It  is  clear  that  classic  themes  have  never  occu- 
pied her  thought ;  but  I  dare  say  she  can  spell  every  Eng- 
lish word  in  the  dictionary,  and  do  any  such  vulgar  exer- 
cise. 

Min.  My  dear  Diana,  what  is  the  reason  that,  whenever 
a  woman  studies  Latin  and  Greek,  she  neglects  her  person  ? 
Even  we  have  not  escaped  censure,  for,  as  I  passed  some 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  2?>Q 

young  gentlemen,  as  they  call  themselves,  I  heard  one  re- 
mark, "  There  goes-a  Greek."  "  Yes,"  said  another,  "  and 
in  her  native  Grease. "" 

Dian  There  is  another  more  serious  disadvantage  aris- 
ing trom  our  devotion  to  the  classics.  In  inverse  propor- 
tion to  the  court  we  pay  to  them,  is  the  court  paid  to  us  by 
the  gentlemen. 

Min.  It  is  true,  they  all  avoid  us,  as  if  the  mere  sight 
of  Helicon  created  Hydrophobia. 

Dian.  I  am  sometimes  inclined  to  think,  that  their 
aversion  to  learned  ladies  does  not  proceed  so  much  from 
liatred  of  the  classics,  as  from  the  slatternly  habits  which 
almost  always  distinguish  learned  women. 

Min.  I  have  thought  sometimes,  that,  if  women  should 
Study  and  enjoy  the  classics  without  attempting  to  "  show 
off,"  as  one  is  tempted  to  do,  we  should  not  forfeit  the  es- 
teem of  the  men,  any  more  than  if  we  excelled  in  drawing 
or  painting. 

Dian.     What  shall  we  do,  then  ? 

Min.     Wear  blue  stockings  no  longer! 

Dian.  Pay  attention  to  dress,  and  ask  Mrs.  Vincent  to 
help  us  with  a  little  of  her  taste,  which  is  classic,  if  her 
tongue  is  not. 

Min.  Let  us  not  make  a  quotation  in  Greek  or  Latin 
for  a  twelvemonth. 

Dian.  Nor  go  into  extasies  at  any  allusion  to  the  clas- 
sics, by  whomever  made. 

'Min.  I  will  learn  to  put  on  my  shawl,  so  that  it  shall 
not  look  as  if  thrown  at  me. 

Dian.  I  will  no  longer  allow  my  honnet  to  hang  down 
my  back,  like  the  head  of  a  cardinal. 

Min.  I  %vill  have  neat  shoes  not  a  mile  too  large  for 
my  foot. 

Dian.  And  I,  stockings  that  shall  be  at  least  of  some 
shade  of  white. 

Min.  That  will  do  ;  but  let  us  not  attempt  too  much. 
If  we  do  half  we  promise,  we  may  say,  "  Exegi  monumen- 
turn.'" 

Dian.  Take  care  !  the  suppression  of  the  propensity  tc 
show  off  by  quotations,  will  be  the  "  hoc  opus.'' 

Min.     Take  care,  yourself ! 


260 


FOWLE  S    HUNDRED     DIALOGUES. 


Dian.     0  dear,  a  last  quotation  is  like  the  last  glass  a 
bacchanal  takes  before  he  abjures  wine  forever. 


cm.    THE  YOUNG  POETS. 

FRED    AND    HAKEY. 
(or,  by  altering  a  few  words,  kate  and  lizzie.) 

Harry.     Fred,  have  you  written  your  composition  ? 

Fred.  No,  I  can't  write  poetry,  and  the  teacher  says  he 
will  take  nothing  else,  you  know.  Besides,  I  don't  like 
the  subject.  I  should  as  soon  think  of  writing  a  poem 
upon  an  old  apron,  as  upon  Industry. 

H.  There  is  not  much  room  for  imagination,  but  I'll  tell 
you  what,  we  can  put  our  heads  together,  and  write  a  poem 
between  us.  You  know  there's  the  Ant  and  the  Sluggard, 
we  can  bring  that  in. 

F.  Good,  good,  so  we  can.  Well,  now  start  us  with 
the  first  line. 

H.  No,  you  may  do  that.  It  is  easier  to  begin,  because 
I  must  match  your  rhyme,  you  know. 

F.     Well,  how  will  this  do  ? 

"  An  ant  upon  an  ant-hill  sot.'* 

H.     Sot,  Fred,  why  a  sot  is  a  drunkard. 

F.     Well,  then, 

"  An  ant  upon  an  ant-hill  sat.'* 

H.  That  is  a  good  line,  but  what  in  the  world  would 
an  industrious  ant  be  sitting  on  an  ant-hill  for  ? 

F.  To  rest  herself,  to  be  sure.  Come,  now  match  my 
line,  will  you. 

"  An  ant  upon  an  ant-hill  sot — sat.'* 

II.         "  /  wonder  what  she  can  be  at.'' 

You  must  account  for  her  being  seated,  you  know,  for 
you  seated  her. 

F.     How  will  it  do  to  say, — 

"  She  thought  of  this  and  then  of  thal."^ 


fovvle's  hundred  dialogues.  261 

H.  She  must  have  been  a  wonderful  ant  to  dc  so ;  but, 
no  matter,  here  is  another  line, — 

"  And  then,  as  lazy  as  a  cat^'' 
F.     How  do  you  know  a  cat  is  lazy  ?  and  who  is  lazy  as 
a  cat  ? 

H.     Who  ever  knew  a  cat  to  do  any  work,  unless  watch- 
ing for  dinner  is  called  work.     But  you  interrupted  me,  or 
you  would  have  known  who  was  lazy.     Hark  ! 
*'  And  then  as  lazy  as  a  cat, 
A  sluggard  came  to  have  some  chat." 
F.     Good.     Now  for  a  dialogue.     We  must  imagine  the 
scene  before  we  can  describe  it. 

H.     Well,   there's  the  ant  sitting  flat,  and  there's  the 
sluggard  standing.     Good.     Now,  the   ant  being  a  female, 
and,  of  course  the  greatest  talker,  would  begin. 
*'0  sluggard,  said  the  ant,  consider  T^ 
F.     That  will  never  do,  Harry  ;  there's  nothing  on  earth 
to  rhyme  with  consider  but  widder. 

H.  Well,  who  knows  but  she  was  a  widder.  She  was 
djQ.  Aunt,  wasn't  she?  Then  she  was  a  woman;  and  as 
loidders  work  hard  to  keep  their  babies  from  starving,  she 
must  have  been  a  widder. 

F.  That'll  do,  and  we  can  put  the  explanation  in  a  note. 
Now,  suppose  we  say, — 

"  Sluggard,  said  the  ant,  consider, 
Tm  a  poor,  industrious  widder.'' 
H.     Good,  now  push  on,  and  finish  her  speech. 
F.     No,  it  is  your  turn. 
H,     Well,  how  will  it  do  to  make  her  say, 
"  And  now  you  may  depend  upon  it,'' 
F.     Depend  upon  what  ?     Gracious,  Harry,  there's  noth- 
ing to  rhyme  with  on  it  but  bonnet,  and  what  has  an  ant  to 
do  with  a  bonnet  ? 

H.     Poh,  that  is  easily  got  over.     You  see  this  is  per- 
sonification, and  she  has  a  right  to  wear  a  bonnet,  but  there 
is  no  need  of  it,  for,  I  propose  to  make  her  say, — 
"  And  now  you  may  depend  upon  it. 
Sure  as  my  head's  without  a  bonnet," 
F.     {Solemnly.)     Is  not  that  an  oath,  Harry? 
H.     An  oath  ?  no,  she  dont  swear  by  her  bonnet,  fjr  she 
has  n't  any.     Suppose  we  make  her  say  next, 


262 


FUWLE'S    HUNDRED  DIALOGUES. 


"  Until  you  learn  to  work  and  labor ^^^ 

F.  That'll  never  do.  What  can  you  get  to  rhyme  with 
labor  ? 

JT.     There's  tabor. 

F.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  the  hard  working  ant  ever 
played. 

H.     Well  then,  take  sabre. 

F.  Much  less  did  she  fight.  Besides,  work  and  labor  is 
what  the  teacher  calls  tortuology,  or  something  else  ;  the 
words  mean  the  same  thing. 

H.     Don't  stand  for  trifles.     Go  on,  Fred. 

F.     I've  caught  a  grand  rhyme,  hark  ! 

Until  you  learn  to  work  and  labor. 

As  I  have  done  ever  since  I  was  a  little  babe  uh  ! 

H.  Your  line  is  too  long,  Fred  ;  you  must  cut  off  both 
the  feet  of  your  baby,  or  the  line  will  limp  dreadfully. 

F.  Better  have  the  line  limp  than  the  baby.  So  go  on 
and  let  the  baby  alone.  What  else  does  the  widder  say  to 
the  sluggard? 

H.         "  U7itil  you  learn  to  work  and  labor. 

As  I  have  done  ever  since  I  was  a  little  babe  uh  /" 

Now,  we  go  on, — 

"  You  never  can  be  rich  or  wise. 
Which  with  mankind  the  same  thing  is.^* 

F.  O,  Harry,  is  can  never  rhyme  with  wise,  and,  besides, 
to  be  rich  and  to  be  wise  don't  mean  the  same  thing. 

H.  Yes  they  do.  All  the  ant  ever  did  was  to  hoard 
up ;  and  all  the  sluggard  had  to  do  was  to  consider  her 
ways.  So,  you  see,  there's  scripture  for  it,  and  wealth 
must  be  wisdom,  for  who  ever  heard  of  a  poor  man's  being 
wise. 

F.  Well,  it  is  time  for  the  sluggard  to  say  something 
now.     Suppose  we  say, — 

"  The  sluggard  yawned  and  raised  his  head,'^ 

H.  Better  say  scratched  his  head,  that  is  more  natural 
for  a  sluggard. 

F.     Very  well,  so  be  it. 

*'  TJie  sluggard  yawned  and  scratched  his  head, 

H.  Well,  are  you  going  to  make  him  reform  or  not  ? 
because  every  thing  depends  upon  the  cat-a-cata-something, 
what  is  it? 


FUWLK't;    iiLNLRKD    DL^LOUUES.  26^ 

F.  Catastrophe,  I  suppose  you  mean ;  but  I  have  a 
line  that  dodges  the  reform  question,  and  leaves  the  field 
open  for  my  successors. 

*'  The  sluggard  yawned  and  scratched  his  head. 
And  no  reply  for  sometime  made.'^ 
There  now,  go  it,  and  make  him  say  something  smart. 
H.     He's  too  lazy  to  he  smart.      You  must  tell  what  he 
said,  and  I  will  only  say, — 

"  Then^  yawning,  as  if  his  under  jaw 
Would  never  close  up  as  before, — 
What  did  he  say  ?  now  wind  it  up  in  style. 
jP.     "  iiZe  stared  the  widder  in  the  face, 

And  said.  Old  pismire,^  go  to  grass  !  '* 


CIV.    THE   SCHOOL  EXAMINATION. 

Examining  Committee. 


KEY.   DB.   OLDWISE,  " 
SQUIliE  SHARP, 
DR.   PITRGE, 
DEACON    TURNSOIL, 

JOHN  SMITH,  Applicant  for  a  School. 


Dr.  O.     What  may  your  name  be,  young  gentleman  ? 

Mr.  S.     Smith,  sir. 

Dr.  O.     Aye,  but  the  other  part  of  it  ? 

Mr.  S.     John,  sir. 

Dr.  P-  Though  a  proper  name,  it  is  a  very  common 
one. 

Squire.  Very  fair,  Doctor,  very  fair.  As  you  and  I 
both  deal  in  cases,  we  naturally  take  to  grammar,  Mr. 
Smith,  please  to  let  us  know  how  the  case  stands  in  regard 
to  your  education.     What  advantages  have  you  had  ? 

Mr.  S.  None,  sir,  unless  it  be  one  to  educate  one's  self. 
I  never  went  to  school. 

Dr.  O.  I  am  sorry  for  it ;  a  self-educated  man  generally 
means  an  uneducated  one.     Have  you  studied  Latin,  sir  ? 

*  Pronounced  pizmire. 


264  FOWLe's    hundred    DIAIiOOUES. 

Mr.  S.     I  have,  sir. 
Dr.  O.     Where,  pray  ? 
Mr.  S.     At  home,  sir. 

Dea.  T.  Famous  Latin,  1  guess.  No  man  can  learn  a 
foreign  language,  except  from  natives,  and  you  have  never 

been  to to Mr.  Oldwise,  in  what  country  do  thf 

Latins  live  r 

Dr.  0.  "  The  other  country,"  Deacon.  Latin  is  now 
a  dead  language. 

Dea.  T.  Then  why  don't  they  bury  it  ?  My  Bible  says 
*'  A  living  dog  is  better  than  a  dead  lion." 

Dr.  P.     I  find  it  very  useful  in  my  profession,  Deacon. 

Squire.  Yes,  you  contrive  to  make  the  dead  kill  the 
living.  But  I  think  the  less  we  say  about  Latin,  the  bet- 
ter, for  there  is  not  much  difference  between  those  who 
never  learned,  and  those  who  have  forgotten. 

Dr.  O.     Are  you  a  good  speller,  Mr. hem  !  what 

did  you  say  your  name  was  ? 

Mr.  S.     Smith,  sir. 

Dr.  O.  Ay,  John  Smith,  ahem !  I  wonder  I  should  for- 
get so  common  a  name.  My  wife  is  distantly  related  to 
the  Smiths,  too.  But  no  matter  for  that.  Are  you  a  good 
speller,  for  I  consider  this  an  important  point. 

Mr.  S.     You  can  try  me,  sir. 

Dea.  T.  Let  me  put  him  a  word.  How  do  you  spell 
keowcumber  ?     {Pronouncing  it  Yankee  fashion.) 

Squire.     Deacon,  you  mean  cow-cum-her^  probably. 

Dr.  O.  Hem  !  I  have  been  accustomed  to  pronounce  it 
'".oo-cum-her. 

Dr.  P.  I  believe  the  true  way  is  cuc-um-ber,  is  it  not, 
Mr.  Smith  ? 

Mr.  S.  I  have  been  accustomed  to  pronounce  it  cu-cum- 
her^  but  I  should  not  dare  to  differ  from  every  member  of 
the  committee.  I  spell  it  cu-cum-ber. 

Dea.     Mr.  Smith,  how  would  you  go  by  land  to  China  ? 

Mr.  S.     I  should  hardly  attempt  to  go,  sir. 

Dea.     Why  not  ?     You  have  only  to  go  to  California. 

Squire.  There  would  be  a  little  pond  of  water  to  cross, 
even  then.  Deacon,  before  you  got  to  China.  But,  Mr, 
Smith,  which  way  does  the  Nile  run,  up  or  down? 

Mr.  S.     Down,  sir. 


^65 

Squire,     But  on  all  the  maps  it  runs  up. 

Mr.  S.  North  is  not  synonymous  with  up,  sir.  On  the 
real  earth,  or  even  on  the  artificial  globe,  things  appear  as 
^hey  are. 

Dr.  0.     Hem  !  Do  all  rivers  run  down  hill,  Mr.  Smith  ? 

Mr.  S.     I  believe  there  is  no  exception,  sir. 

Dr.  O.  Well,  hem  !  The  Amazon  is  several  thousand 
miles  long,  and  the  earth  is  round,  so  that  between  the 
source  of  the  Amazon  and  its  mouth,  there  must  be  a  con- 
siderable swell.  Now,  how  does  the  water  get  over  that 
swell  without  running  up  hill  ? 

Mr.  S.  It  must  fall  from  its  source  to  its  mouth,  by  the 
force  of  gravity,  and  what  we  call  a  level  cannot  be  a 
straight  line,  but  only  a  curve,  equally  distant  from  the 
centre  of  the  earth.  Of  course  the  apparent  swell  may  be 
nearly  a  real  level.  This  is  the  way  it  strikes  me,  but  I 
am  no  authority  on  the  subject,  and  can  cite  none. 

Dea.  You  say  the  river  runs  by  the  force  of  gravity  ; 
now,  as  I  am  a  deacon,  I  cannot  see  what  gravity  has  to  do 
with  running  water  ?  It  would  be  inconsistent  with  my 
gravity  to  run. 

Dr,  0.     He  means  gravitation,  Deacon. 

Dea.  Young  man,  what  denomination  do  you  belong 
to? 

Mr.  S,     None  of  them,  sir. 

Dr.  0.  Which  of  the  churches  in  your  town,  do  you 
attend. 

Mr.  S.  All  of  them,  sir.  I  am  forbidden  by  law  to 
teach  sectarianism  in  school,  and  so  I  go  to  all  the  churches 
to  learn  what  they  have  in  common. 

Squire.     Well,  what  is  the  result  of  your  search  ? 

Mr.  S.  I  find  they  agree  more  nearly  than  they  think 
they  do.     There  is  much  good  in  every  one. 

Dea,     Dr.  Purge,  are  you  going  to  sell  your  keow  ? 

Dr,  P.  Yes  ;  do  you  want  one  ?  You  may  have  it  for 
ten  dollars. 

Dea.  It  can't  be  good  for  much,  if  that  is  all  you  ask 
for  it.  I  want  a  good  keow  or  none,  and  I  am  willing  to 
pay  for  one.  But  Mr.  Smith,  what  are  you  going  to  ask 
us  a  month  ?     You  must  be  reasonable,  now. 

Mr.  S.     I  expect  fifty  dollars  a  month. 

23 


266 

Den.  Goodness  gracious  !  Why,  we  only  paid  tlie  last 
teacher  twenty,  and  he  would  have  been  glad  to  stay. 

Mr.  S.  Why  didn't  you  keep  him,  sir  ?  I  think  of 
teachers  as  you  do  of  cows,  "  a  good  one  or  none."  But  I 
would  suggest  that  it  will  be  better  to  finish  my  examina- 
tion before  settling  the  terms. 

D>\  0.  Dr.  Purge,  will  you  put  a  question  in  physiol- 
ogy, for  the  law  requires  teachers  to  know  something  about 
that  ? 

Dr.  P.     Mr.  Smith,  what  is  the  chief  use  of  the  spleen  ? 

Mr.  S.  To  puzzle  the  doctors,  I  believe,  sir,  for  they 
have  never  found  any  use  for  it. 

Dea.  T.  Do  you  say,  Mr.  Smith,  that  any  of  God's 
works  are  useless  ?  My  Bible  says  God  hath  made  all 
things  good,  and  nothing  in  vain. 

Mr.  S.  So  does  mine,  sir,  but  still  he  has  made  many 
things  that  the  doctors  cannot  explain. 

Dea.  T,  That's  true.  But  Mr.  Oldwise,  will  you  put  a 
question  in  grammar  ?  I  don't  know  nothing  about  that. 

Dr.  O.    Mr.  —  uh  —  I  can't  think  of  your  name  again  — 

Mr.  S.     Smith,  sir,  John  Smith. 

Dr.  O.  Ah  !  Mr.  Smith,  in  the  sentence,  "  John  reads 
history.,''^  whrt  is  the  subject? 

Mr.  S.     History,  sir, 

Dea.  T.     I  could  have  answered  that. 
'  Dr.  0.     But  if  history  is  the  subject,  pray  what  is  the 
object  ? 

Dea.  T.  The  object  of  reading  ought  to  be  improvement, 
but  goodness  gracious  !  there  is  not  one  book  in  a  thousand 
that  is  fit  to  be  read  by  a  rational  being,  to  say  nothing  of 
a  religious  and  accountable  one. 

Dr.  O.  Morals  and  grammar.  Doctor,  are  diff'erent 
things,  and  we  are  in  danger  of  blending  them.  What 
grammar  have  you  studied,  Mr.  Smink  —  Smith,  I  mean  } 

Mr.  S.     English  grammar,  sir. 

Dr.  O.  I  guess  you  have,  and  heard  yourself  recite. 
Pray,  young  man,  have  you  any  isms  ? 

Mr.  S.     Any  what,  sir  ? 

Dr.  0.  Any  isms ;  are  you  an  abolitionist,  a  teetotaler, 
a  peace-man,  a  radical  ? 


267 

Mr.  S.     I  have  considered  all  those  subjects,  sir,  and  am 
not  without  an  opinion. 

Dr.  O.     Did  you  say,  just  now,  that  you  expected  fifty 
dollars  a  month  ? 

Mr.  S.     I  did,  sir.     I  mean  to  make  myself  worth  that 
to  my  employers. 

Dr.  O.     I  can  get  as  many  teachers  as  I  can  shake  a 
stick  at  for  twenty-five. 

Mr.  S.     No  doubt,  sir ;  but  none  but  such  a?  will  need 
to  have  a  stick  shaken  at  them  will  teach  for  such  wages. 
Dr.  0.     Your  mind  is  made  up,  is  it,  Mr.  —  ei  — 
Mr.  S.     Fully,  sir.     I  have  been  at  great  pains  and  ex- 
pense to  prepare  myself  for  the  work,  and  I  mean  to  leave 
my  mark  upon  my  pupils. 

Dea.  T.  You  don't  mean  to  whip  unmercifully,  I  hope. 
Mr.  S.  You  misunderstand  me,  sir,  I  mean  that  every 
child  who  looks  to  me  for  instruction  shall  get  it ;  shall  gel 
such  as  he  needs  ;  such  as  he  can  use  in  after  life  ;  such  as 
he  will  never  wish  to  forget.  I  may  have  strange  notions! 
on  this  subject,  gentlemen,  but  they  are  the  result  of 
much  thought,  and  to  carry  them  out  will  require  much 
self-denial,  much  patience,  much  long-suffering  ;  but  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  all  this,  and,  by  the  help  of  God,  I 
will  act  up  to  my  convictions. 

Dr.  O.  Mr.  Smith,  —  there,  I  have  hit  your  name  at 
last,  —  will  you  be  good  enough  to  retire  a  moment  .^  {Mr. 
Smith  goes  out.)  Gentlemen,  I  think  he  stands  examina- 
tion better  than  we  do. 

Squire.  I  like  the  little  fellow's  spunk,  and  I'm  for  try- 
ing him. 

Dea.  T.  What  will  the  Deestrick  say  at  our  extrava- 
gance ?  ijJThe  See-lec-men  will  oppose  it. 

Dr.  P*    Every  man  and  woman  in  our  district  is  sick. 
Dm.  T.     You  don't  say  so.   Doctor.     AVhat  is  it,  the 
chol(^  ? 

Dr.  P.  No,  Deacon,  they  are  sick  of  something  worse 
than  cholera  ;  —  they  are  sick  to  death  of  cheap  teachers, 
men  who  have  no  minds,  and  who  will  prevent  our  children 
from  ever  having  any.     I  go  for  Mr.  Smith. 

Dr.  0.  If  you  are  agreed  to  try  Mr.  Smith,  gentlemen, 
you  will  say,  ay. 


268        '        kowle's  hundrkd  dialogues. 

All.     Ay.       {Dr.  O.  calls  Mr.  Smith.) 

Dr.  O.  Mr.  Smith,  we  have  unanimously  agreed  to  give 
you  our  school  at  your  own  terms. 

Mr.  S.  I  shall  be  happy  to  serve  you,  gentlemen,  if  your 
Bchool-house  is  a  good  one. 

Dea.  T.     Why,  what  has  the  school-house  to  do  wdth  it  ? 

Mr.  S.  I  do  not  wish  to  go  to  a  prison  or  a  hospital.  I 
value  my  health  at  more  than  fifty  dollars,  and  I  think 
the  health  of  fifty  or  more  children  must  be  worth  some- 
thing. 

Squire.     What  shall  we  do,  Doctor  ? 

Dr.  P.  Mr.  Smith  is  right  about  it.  Half  my  practice 
comes  from  that  mean  old  school-house.  We  must  have  a 
better  ;  that's  the  long  and  short  of  it. 

Dr.  0.  We  must,  and  must  all  work  to  get  it.  I  will 
preach  a  school-house  sermon  next  Sunday. 

Squire.  I'll  have  the  old  one  presented  by  the  Grand 
Jury  as  a  nuisance. 

Dr.  P.     I'll  tell  the  truth  about  my  practice. 

Dea,  T.  What  can  I  do  ?  Let  me  see.  I'll  offer  to  buy 
the  old  house  for  my  keow,  and  the  old  critter  will  hardly 
thank  me,  I  fear. 

Dr.  O.     So  be  it,  then  ;  put  your  wives  up  to  the  work, 

gentlemen,   and  introduce  Mr. Mr.  there,   I've 

lost  it  again. 

Mr.  S.     Smith,  sir. 

Dr.  O.  Yes,  introduce  Mr.  Smith  to  them,  and  perhaps 
he  can  stir  the  district  up  as  he  has  us.  Come,  Mr.  Smink, 
go  home  with  me  to  dinner  ;  my  wife  expects  you. 


i. 


269 


CV.     GENTILITY.     A  DISCUSSION. 

The  Lady  President.    Mrs.  Level.    Mrs.  Lease.    Mrs. 

Newton.    Mrs.  Drab.    Secretary.    Mrs.  Ingot.    Mrs. 

Place.     Mrs.  Cleanly.    Black  Sarah.    Mrs.  Straiter. 

Mrs.  Herald.     Mrs.  Delver.     Mrs.  Morley. 

President.  Ladies,  we  are  assembled,  as  you  know,  for 
luutual  instruction,  and  for  the  discussion  of  such  matters  as 
are  of  interest  in  this  community.  The  Secretary  will  be 
good  enough  to  read  the  question  which  is  to  occupy  our 
attention. 

Secretary.  The  question  for  the  consideration  of  the 
Society  is,  "  Gentility,  in  what  does  it  consist  r " 

President.  Ladies,  you  have  heard  the  question,  and  I 
trust  will  freely  express  your  thoughts.  The  question  is 
certainly  a  very  important  one,  for,  although  it  may  seem  at 
first  that  gentility  is  a  city  concern,  with  which,  in  this 
remote  village,  we  have  nothing  to  do,  I  think  your  obser- 
vation must  have  convinced  you,  that  there  are  few  villages 
where  the  question  of  gentility  is  not  raised,  and  where  the 
intercourse  of  society  is  not,  to  a  considerable  degree,  affected 
by  it.  If  there  is  really  a  just  standard  by  which  our  inter- 
course may  be  regulated,  it  is  desirable  that  we  should  know 
it ;  if  any  rules  have  been  adopted  to  regulate  the  free  in- 
tercourse of  all  the  members  of  a  community,  it  is  proper 
that  the  rules  should  be  examined  and  confirmed  or  regula- 
ted, as  they  may  approve  themselves  or  not  to  a  sound 
understanding.  Nay,  if  barriers  have  been  erected  to  check, 
or  entirely  to  prevent  the  intercourse  alluded  to,  every  one 
has  an  interest  in  ascertaining  whether  the  barriers  aie 
necessary,  and  rightfully  established,  or  whether  they  a.re 
set  up  by  pride  or  caprice,  and  ought  to  be  removed.  I  hope 
the  ladies  will  fully  express  their  views  upon  the  subject. 

Mrs.  Straiter.  It  seems  to  me,  Mrs.  President,  that 
before  we  can  discuss  this  question  in  anything  like  order, 
it  will  be  necessary  to  define  our  subject,  with  some  degree 
of  precision.  Your  own  remarks,  madam,  evidently  show 
that  there  are  two  senses,  at  least,  in  which  gentility  may  be 


270  FOWLERS    HUNDRKD    DIALOOTTKS. 

received  ;  the  first  as  a  series  of  rules  to  regulate  the  con- 
duct of  every  one,  to  the  exclusion  of  none  ;  and  the  second, 
hs  a  line  of  separation,  above  which  it  is  presumption  for 
certain  persons  to  attempt  to  rise,  and  below  which  it  is 
debasement  for  certain  other  persons  to  descend.  Now, 
these  two  acceptations  of  the  term  require  a  different  course 
of  remark.  No  lady,  I  presume,  will  deny  that  there  are 
certain  rules  which  should  govern  the  intercourse  of  virtuous, 
refined,  and  well  educated  people,  and  such  will  command 
'respect,  and  almost  necessarily  draw  a  line  between  them- 
selves and  the  immoral,  unrefined  and  vulgar.  But,  then, 
who  does  not  see  that  the  law  of  kindness  does  not  allow 
this  line,  however  distinct,  to  become  impassable.  On  the 
other  hand,  is  it  not  evident,  that  what  is  called  gentility, 
is  a  mere  assu-nption  of  superiority,  arising  from  birth,  for- 
tune, office,  or  some  other  accident,  which  has  little  to  do 
with  personal  worth,  and  which  may  exclude  from  its  com- 
panionship persons  of  the  most  cultivated  intellect,  and  the 
most  polished  manners.  As  it  is  this  latter  sort  of  gentility 
which  is  injurious  to  a  community,  I  move  that  our  discus- 
sion be,  as  far  as  possible,  confined  to  the  question  not  what 
is  gentility  but  what  ought  it  to  be. 

President.  Ladies,  you  have  heard  the  proposal  of  the 
lady  last  up,  if  you  think  it  best  that  the  discussion  be  so 
restricted  you  will  please  to  say  ay. 

{All  the  Ladies  say  ay,  and  the  President  adds — ) 
The  ladies  will  now  please  to  proceed  with  the  discussion. 

Mrs.  Level.  Madam,  the  manner  in  which  this  question 
is  now  proposed  seems  to  imply,  that  there  are  two  portions 
of  every  community,  unequal  in  some  respects,  and  in  some 
measure  opposed  to  each  other.  Now,  madam,  I  am  pre- 
pared to  say,  that  there  is  no  just  foundation  for  any  such 
division,  not  even  in  England  and  other  countries  where  tlie 
accident  of  birth,  or  wealth,  or  rank,  by  law  authorizes  one 
to  assume  a  certain  degree  of  superiority.  Why,  madam, 
what  constitutes  the  true  dignity  of  human  nature  ?  Is  it  a 
title  ?  this  is  often  held  by  the  worthless.  Is  it  wealth  ?  the 
most  mean  and  I'ulgar  may  amass  that.  Is  it  knowledge  ? 
this  is  a  means  of  mischief  unless  controlled  by  religion.  Is 
it  manners  ?  Some  of  the  most  finished  gentlemen  have 
been  the  most  accompli.-^hed  villains.     I  maintain,  therefore, 


FOWLERS    HUNDRED    DIALOGUES.  271 

madam,  that  all  distinctions  are  unjust,  and  ought  to  be 
discountenanced.  Our  Creator  made  all  men  equal,  and 
any  attempt  to  exalt  one  above  another  is  in  direct  oppo- 
Bition  to  his  will.  I  hope,madam,  no  body  in  this  village 
will  for  a  moment  tolerate  any  such  notion. 

Mrs.  Ingot.  Madam,  at  the  risk  of  incurring  the  dis- 
pleasure of  the  lady  who  has  just  taken  her  seat,  I  shall 
venture  to  say  a  few  words  in  favor  of  what  I  consider  the 
only  true  ground  for  any  distinction  among  the  members  of 
a  community.  I  consider  Pkoperty  to  be  at  the  foun- 
dation of  all  human  action.  Where  there  is  no  property 
there  is  no  civilization  ;  and  where  there  is  no  civilization 
there  can  be  aothing  worth  living  for.  If  property,  there- 
fore, is  the  mainspring  of  human  action,  and  the  evidence 
of  civilization,  it  is  clear  that  the  acquisition  of  it  should 
entitle  a  man  to  honor  and  distinction.  Besides,  madam, 
you  can  not  prevent  its  doing  so.  I  thirxk  no  one  will 
deny  that  wealth  can  command  all  the  comforts  of  life  ; 
and,  as  every  man  is  in  pursuit  of  wealth,  he  who  has  the 
most,  has  the  means  of  controlling  all  others.  Wealth 
always  has  done  this,  and,  in  my  opinion,  it  always  will 
continue  to  do  so.  You  can  not  destroy  the  distinction 
between  riches  and  poverty,  and,  therefore,  I  maintain  that 
wealth  is  the  best  criterion  of  gentility. 

Mrs.  Level.  It  appears  to  me,  madam,  that,  if  wealth  is 
to  make  a  distinction  between  us,  it  ought  not  to  be  the  pos- 
session of  wealth  but  the  use  of  it.  The  miser,  who  hoards 
immense  sums,  is  often  times  less  seiviceable  to  men  than 
the  active  man,  who  never  accumulates  more  than  he  im- 
mediately expends.  If  we  must  have  a  nobility,  I  pray  diat 
it  may  be  based  upon  some  thing  that  the  robber  or  the 
elements  cannot  at  any  moment  supply  with  wings  ;  some 
thing  that  affords  at  least  presumptive  evidence  that  its 
possessor  is  a  man. 

Mi's.  Herald.  Madam  President,  I  rise  to  say,  that, 
although  I  do  not  agree  with  the  former  lady,  in  her  high 
estimate  of  wealth  ;  nor  with  the  latter,  in  her  apparent  con- 
tempt for  it,  still  I  am  not  insensible  to  its  advantages, 
and  wo  aid  make  it,  if  possible,  one  of  the  ingredients  of 
gentility.  The  chief  objection  I  see  to  making  it  the  only 
ground  of  distinction,  is  the  fact  alluded  to  by  the  lady  last 


^/^  FOWLE  S    HUNDRED   DIALOGUES. 

up, — that  it  lacks  permanence, — and  the  person  who  may 
be  the  pink  of  gentility  to  day,  may  be  a  beggar  to-morrow, 
not  only  stripped  of  his  rank,  but  unfitted  to  live  in  a  state 
of  poverty.  I  would,  therefore,  propose  that,  instead  of 
wealth,  we  should  take  Birth  for  our  ground  of  distinction, 
for  whatever  honor  there  may  be  in  this,  is  permanent,  and 
can  neither  te  lost  by  the  injustice  of  others,  nor  by  any 
misconduct  of  our  own.  Besides,  madam,  is  it  not  true, 
that,  ever  since  men  began  to  acquire  property,  they  have 
felt  the  insecurity  of  it,  and  have  endeavored  to  sustain  the 
elevation  to  which  wealth  may  have  raised  them,  by  claim- 
ing distinction  for  their  children  merely  on  account  of  their 
biith. 

Mrs.  Lease.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  to  differ  from  any  lady 
on  any  subject,  and  especially  in  regard  to  what  shall  con- 
stitute the  basis  of  social  intercourse,  but  it  does  appear  to 
me  that  the  proposal  of  the  lady,  who  last  took  her  seat, 
would  only  aggravate  the  evil  she  wishes  to  remedy.  There 
may  be  some  merit  in  accumulating  wealth  by  industry  and 
honest  means,  but  there  is  none  at  all  in  being  born  to  an 
estate,  or  in  being  the  heir  of  a  person  who  has  lost  his 
estate.  It  will  be  necessary  for  the  lady  to  go  one  step 
further,  and  make  it  a  condition  of  gentility,  that  the  pro- 
perty once  acquired  shall  never  be  lost  !  This,  you  know, 
madam,  is  the  case  in  some  countries,  where,  to  keep  the 
property  in  the  family,  they  have  what  is  called  the  law  of 
entail,  which  prevents  a  man  from  parting  with  his  family 
estate,  even  to  pay  his  honest  debts.  But  the  establish- 
ment of  a  nobility,  such  as  exists  in  certain  countries,  is 
not,  I  suppose,  the  subject  before  us.  In  this  country,  no 
such  distinction  can  be  established  by  law,  and  we  have 
nothing  to  fear  or  to  hope  from  it.  Still,  we  have  our  dis- 
tinctions, and  there  are  some  among  us  who  Avould  willingly 
draw  the  line.  Every  city  has  its  upper  circle,  and  every 
village  has  its  select  families,  which,  for  some  reason  or 
other,  feel  a  little  better  than  some  of  their  neighbors. 
Any  distinction  in  this  country  must  be  one  of  general  con- 
sent, and  the  question  before  us  is,  I  suppose,  shall  there  be 
any  such  distinction,  and  what  shall  be  the  basis  of  it. 

President.  You  are  right.  I  was  aware  that  the  ladies 
were  not  sU'ictly  adhering  to  the   question,  but,  where  per- 


273 

sons  are  unused  to  discussions  of  this  sort,  it  oftsn  happ  ens, 
as  in  this  case,  that  we  come  to  the  truth  much  sooner  if  we 
are  allowed  to  come  in  our  own  way,  and  persons  unused 
to  debate,  often  deliver  what  they  have  to  say  much  more 
easily,  and  in  much  less  time,  even  if  they  wander  a  little 
from  the  subject,  if  they  are  not  interrupted  by  calls  to  or- 
der, and  subjected  to  what  are  called  parliamentary  rules. 
These  rules,  I  sometimes  think,  are  less  necessary  to  guide 
those  who  may  ignorantly  wander,  than  to  restrain  those 
who  wilfully  do  so,  that  they  may  gain  some  advantage. 
Excuse  this  digression,  ladies ;  I  shall  endeavor  to  allow 
all  reasonable  freedom  in  the  discussion,  since  we  are  as- 
sembled for  mutual  improvement,  and  not  for  victory. 

Mrs.  Place.  I  thank  you,  madam,  for  your  indulgence, 
for  I  am  sure  I  shall  need  it.  I  surely  should  not  attempt 
to  speak,  if  I  were  confined  to  rigid  rules  which  I  have 
never  studied.  I  hold  it  to  be  every  member's  duty  to  say 
something,  and,  aware  that  ease  in  speaking  comes  only  by 
practice,  I  compel  myself  to  say  a  few  words,  though,  as 
you  must  perceive,  it  is  somewhat  of  an  effort.  The  re- 
marks of  the  ladies  who  have  preceded  me,  have  led  me  to 
think,  that,  as  official  rank  is  a  gift  of  the  people,  and  the 
very  selection  of  a  man  to  fill  an  office  implies  superiority  to 
his  associates,  and  gives  him  a  sort  of  pre-eminence,  the  true 
ground  of  distinction  must  be  this  very  office.  The  officer 
so  selected  will  have  advantages  while  in  office,  and  it  is 
reasonable  to  expect  that  his  family  will  be  improved  in 
gentility,  and  take  rank  as  he  does.  We  see  this  tenden- 
cy at  large,  in  the  respect  that  is  shown  to  the  families  and 
relatives  of  our  Presidents  and  public  men,  and  we  can 
generally  discern  it  in  the  remote  villages,  where  the  Se- 
lectmen, and  especially  the  Representative,  are  often 
"looked  up  to,"  as  our  New  England  expression  is.  I 
think,  therefore,  if  we  must  have  a  line,  it  had  better  be 
that  which  the  people  seem  to  draw  for  themselves,  the  line 
attached  to  office. 

Mrs.  Delver.  It  strikes  me,  Madam  President,  as  they 
call  you,  that,  as  all  elected  officers  are  but  the  servants  of 
the  people,  it  is  hardly  worth  while  for  their  masters  to  fall 
down  and  worship  them.  My  husband  is  a  farmer,  and  an 
honest  nj  in  >  and  I  don't  believe  he  will  allow  any  body  to 


274  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

draw  a  line,  and  say  he  shall  not  step  over  it.  I  have  no 
opinion  of  these  lines.  Why  there  are  the  Gripes  on  Meet- 
ing House  Hill,  as  rich  as  Croesus,  and  as  mean  as  dirt. 
Their  children,  too,  think  they  are  something  more  than 
mortal,  but  I  guess  nobody  else  thinks  so  ;  and,  as  to  keep- 
ing their  money,  I  guess  the  boys  will  make  it  fly  when 
they  get  hold  of  it.  Now  do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to 
bow  down  to  them,  because  the  old  man  is  reputed  rich, 
and  has  held  all  the  town  offices,  and  been  to  the  General 
Court  ?  or,  do  you  suppose  I  care  whether  they  invite  me 
to  their  parties  or  not  ?     No,  not  I. 

President.  I  hope  the  lady  will  not  allow  herself  to  make 
any  such  personal  remarks. 

Mrs.  Delver.  I  have  said  all  I  had  to  say.  Gentility, 
huh  !  Here's  my  black  girl  ;  Dinah,  get  up  here  !  ( The 
Mack  girl  stands  up.)  There,  tliis  girl  was  the  daughter  of 
a  king  in  Guinea,  who  held  all  the  offices  in  the  kingdom, 
and  had  more  money  and  servants  than  aJl  of  you  together, 
and  ten  times  as  many  more,  and  which  of  you  will  take 
her  for  a  pattern  of  gentility  ?  Dinah,  don't  you  wish  to 
be  a  lady  ? 

Dinah.  (Shonnng  her  white  teeth.)  No,  missis,  I  don't 
know  enough  for  that. 

Mrs.  Delver.  You  need  not  know  anything  to  be  gen- 
teel. I  dare  say  you  know  as  much  as  half  the  young 
ladies  that  are  manufactured  by  the  dress-makers  and  mil- 
liners. 

Dinah.  I  hope  missis  will  excuse  me.  I  have  no  wish 
to  change  my  sitiwation,  or  extend  the  circle  of  my  acquaint- 
ances. 

President.  This  conversation  is  a  little  out  of  order. 
Mrs.  Newton,  you  were  rising,  I  thought,  to  address  the 
meeting. 

Mrs.  Newton.  The  remark  of  the  colored  girl  suggested 
to  my  mind  that,  after  all,  the  true  "basis  of  gentility  must  be 
KNOWLEDGE.  I  think  it  must  be  evident  to  you,  madam, 
and  to  the  ladies,  that  wealth,  and  birth,  and  rank,  with- 
out knowledge,  will  only  expose  their  possessor  to  mortifi- 
cation. I  think  your  observation  must  have  shown  you, 
that  knowledge,  without  any  of  the  aids  that  have  been 
mentioned,  will  often  advance  its  possessor  to  the  highest 


275 

society,  and  a  scholar  is  generally  considered  an  equal  in 
the  richest  families. 

Mrs.  Level.  I  have  often  heard  our  school-masters  and 
mistresses  complain  that  they  were  treated  with  neglectj 
and  I  fear  that,  as  a  body,  they  have  not  been  received 
with  all  the  respect  which  the  lady  claims  for  knowledge. 

Mrs.  Newton.  Perhaps  the  teachers,  as  a  body,  have  not 
been  so  well  informed  as  their  vocation  would  imply ;  but 
[  think  it  will  be  allowed,  that  such  of  them  as  are  good 
scholars,  are  generally  welcome  to  the  best  society  in  vil- 
lages, if  not  in  the  cities.  But,  whether  this  be  the  case  or 
not,  there  can  be  no  doubt,'  that  the  families  of  professional 
men,  throughout  the  country,  take  a  very  respectable  rank 
in  society,  and  are  at  least  as  genteel  as  the  rich  and  the 
office  holders  ;  nay,  I  am  not  sure  that  they  do  not  consti- 
tute a  majority  of  those  who  hold  office,  and  wealth,  and 
distinction.  I  know  there  is  no  more  merit  in  being' born 
with  talents,  than  in  being  born  with  wealth  ;  but  the 
world  has  always  been  swayed  by  talent,  and  I  know  no 
line  more  distinctly  drawn  than  that  between  knowledge 
and  ignorance. 

Mrs.  Clearly.  I  have  attended  very  closely,  madam  and 
ladies,  to  the  discussion,  and  I  hope  no  lady  will  be  offend- 
ed if  I  remark,  that  we  have  rather  been  considering  the 
standards  of  gentility  which  exist,  and  which,  probably  are 
defective  in  some  respects,  instead  of  ascertaining  what 
should  be  the  true  basis  of  gentility.  Now  it  appears  to 
me  that  refinement  of  taste  and  good  manners  constitute 
true  gentility,  and  these  are,  in  a  great  measure,  independ- 
ent of  the  other  grounds  that  have  been  mentioned.  Sui-ely 
no  lady  will  allow  that  the  richest  man,  if  his  conversation 
is  unpolished,  his  taste  unrefined,  and  his  manners  vulgar, 
can  be  called  a  genteel  man,  or  be  entitled  to  any  respect 
beyond  that  lowest  degree  of  it  which  is  paid  to  mere 
money.  So,  no  one,  I  think,  will  allow  that  the  scholar, 
however  learned  he  maybe,  can  be  called  a  real  gentleman, 
unless  his  conversation,  habits,  tastes  and  manners,  are 
pure  and  refined,  polished  and  dignified.  It  was  long  ago 
established  as  an  axiom,  that  "  manners  make  the  man," 
and  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  they  do  more  towards  it 
':han  all  things  else.     It  is  a  pleasing  consideration  in  our 


276  fowlf/s  hundred  dialogues. 

search  for  a  basis  of  true  gentility,  that  there  is  no  situa- 
tion so  high  or  so  low  that  he  who  occupies  it  must  neces- 
sarily be  destitute  of  good  manners.  We  may  lack  birth 
and  wealth,  office  and  talent.,  and  we  may  never  be  able  to 
obtain  them,  but  the  poorest  of  us  can  be  civil  and  respect- 
ful ;  the  humblest  of  us  can  be  courteous  and  gentle,  decor- 
ous and  well  bred,  without  much  effort,  and  without  any 
expense. 

Mrs.  Morlay.  It  would  seem,  Madam  President,  as  if 
nothing  could  be  added  to  what  my  friend  has  just  said, 
but  it  does  appear  to  me  that  the  main  element  of  true  gen- 
tility has  not  yet  been  named.  It  has  been  clearly  shown, 
that  wealth,  birth,  place,  and  even  talent,  are  insufficient 
without  manners,  but  is  it  not  a  fact  that  manners  are  no- 
thing Mdthout  MORALS,  without  virtue,  without  religious 
principle.  I  believe  few  have  passed  through  this  world  as 
far  as  I  have,  without  often  seeing  persons  of  graceful  man- 
ners and  graceless  character.  Some  of  the  most  courteous 
and  gentlemanly  men  that  I  have  ever  seen,  have  been  no- 
toriously lax  in  morals,  and  deficient  in  principle.  It  is 
not,  therefore,  enough  {or  a  man  to  be  rich,  of  elegant  man- 
ners and  refined  taste,  unless  his  morals  are  pure,  his  con- 
science tender,  and  the  will  of  God  his  rule  of  life.  It  is 
possible  that  all  the  ladies  who  have  spoken,  took  it  for 
granted  that  this  element  of  character  would  exist,  —  that 
no  true  gentility  could  exist  without  virtue  and  religion  ; 
but,  as  nothing  was  said  on  this  point,  I  hope  I  shall  be 
excused  for  calling  attention  to  it. 

Mrs*  Drab.  I  think,  friends,  that  this  conversation  has 
been  profitable,  though  I  could  wish  a  few  harsh  words 
that  droppea  from  thee,  Mary,  {turning  to  Mrs.  Delver,) 
htid  not  been  said.  But  thee  did  not  mean  ill,  I  know  thee 
didn't.  Thou  wilt  be  surprised,  Elizabeth,  (turning  to 
Mrs.  Morlay,)  to  hear  me  «ay  that  I  do  not  entirely  agree 
with  thee  ;  but,  really,  if  thee  will  consider  a  moment,  thee 
will  see  that  the  purest  morals,  the  firmest  principles,  and 
the  most  conscientious  obedience  to  the  will  of  God,  may 
exist  without  true  gentility.  I  have  known  religious  men 
withc^ut  taste,  without  refinement,  without  politeness,  with- 
out knowledge,  and  what  is  far  worse,  without  charity. 
Now  it  appears  to  me,  that  all  the  elements  that  have  been 


fowi.e's  hundred  dialogues.  277 

named  may  be  united  in  a  perfect  gentleman.  It  surely 
cannot  hurt  him  to  be  born  of  virtuous  or  distinguished  pa- 
rents, for,  if  he  is  a  true  man,  he  will  try  not  to  disgrace 
them.  It  cannot  hurt  him  to  be  born  with  wealth,  for, 
with  a  disposition  to  use  it  well,  his  means  of  usefulness 
will  be  increased ;  and,  if  he  holds  office,  he  will  seek  to 
benefit  the  community,  as,  perhaps,  no  private  individual 
can.  He  must  have  knowledge,  if  he  is  to  be  a  model  and 
a  guide  to  others  ;  and,  without  knowledge,  even  of  a  sec- 
ular kind,  the  world  can  not  go  on.  Then  how  important 
are  good  manners  to  every  man,  in  every  condition  of  life  ; 
and  if,  instead  of  being  the  result  of  habit,  or  calculation, 
they  are  the  result  of  that  Christian  charity  which  treats  all 
kindly,  and  loves  all  sincerely,  I  do  not  know  what  more 
the  true  gentleman  can  want.  Now,  if  we  can  make 
such  gentility  as  common  as  it  is  rare,  there  will  be  no 
danger  of  any  lines  being  drawn  so  as  to  offend  any  one. 
The  most  elevated  would  be  anxious  for  the  welfare  of  the 
humblest,  and  the  humblest  would  respect  those  who  love 
them,  and  who  only  wish  to  do  them  good.  I  was  moved 
to  say  what  I  have  said,  and  I  will  not  trespass  any  fur- 
ther. 

Mrs.  Place.  I  move,  madam,  that  this  meeting  be  ad- 
journed. 

Mrs.  Delver.  1  second  the  motion,  for  it  is  time  I  was 
at  home  to  look  after  my  husband's  supper.  Gentility, 
forsooth  !  (tossing  her  head.) 

President.  Ladies,  the  question  of  adjournment  takes 
precedence  of  every  other,  but  may  I  ask  whether  you  in- 
tend to  adj  ourn  without  taking  a  vote  on  the  question  you 
have  discussed. 

Mrs.  Drab.  I  think  thy  votes  will  not  settle  the  ques- 
tioa. 

Mr'i.  Delver.  I  shouldn't  care  a  fig  for  a  thousand  of 
them.  A  fig — no,  not  a  potato  paring.  Diiiah,  wake  up 
there  ! 

Dinah.     (Grinning  and  springing  up.)     Yes,  missis. 

President.  The  question  does  not  admit  of  debate. 
Ladies,  it  has  been  moved  and  seconded  that  this  meet- 
ing be  adjourned      If  this  be  your  wish,  you  will  please 

34 


273  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

to  say  ay.  (All  say  ay,  and  the  President  adds,)  The 
discussion  is  ended  accordingly. 

Mrs.  Delver.  (To  her  black  girl.)  There,  Dinah,  you 
can't  be  a  lady  quite  yet.  Now  run  home,  and  make  a 
genteel  cup  of  tea  for  your  master. 

Dinah.  (Grinning.)  Yes,  missis,  after  de  latest  Par- 
ishoner  fashion.  If  gentility  consist  in  making  the  best 
cup  of  tea,  old  Dinah  {grins  and  shakes  her  head,)  tip  top 
genteel,  aha! 


CYI.  WILLIAM  TELL  AND  THE  APPLE. 

GESLER,    TELL,    OFFICEK,    AND    BOY. 

Gesler  (alone).  The  Mountaineer  is  safe  in  prison,  but 
refuses  to  declare  his  accomplices.  Death  would  but  seal 
his  lips,  and  shut  the  secret  up  forever.  We  have  exposed 
him  to  the  gaze  of  many  thousands  who,  no  doubt,  do  know 
him  well,  but  no  one  recognized  him  by  look,  or  sign,  or 
word,  so  thoroughly  this  people  understand  each  other. 
Enter  an  Officer. 

Officer.  Good  news,  my  lord  !  We  found  just  now,  in 
the  market  place,  a  mountain  boy,  inquiring  for  his  father, 
who  returned  not  home  as  he  is  wont.  Inquiry  led 
to  the  suspicion  that  the  mountaineer  in  prison  was  his  sire  ; 
but,  when  confronted,  he  did  not  betray  any  amotion,  though 
the  lineaments  of  both  betoken  kindred, 

Ges.  Lead  them  hither.  {Officer  brings  them  in  from 
different  sides.)     Who  art  thou  boy  ? 

Boy.     My  father's  son,  I've  heard  my  mother  say. 

Ges.     Who  is  thy  father  ? 

Boy.  Gesicr  does  not  know.  He  ne'er  shall  know  from 
me. 

Ges.  If  this  were  not  thy  father,  then  would'st  thou  deny 
at  once. 


279 

Boi/.  Not  so.  I  own  no  father,  but  (pointing  upward) 
Him. 

Ges.     Thou  hast  a  mother,  boy,  say  where  is  she  ? 

Boy.    Here  {looking  round)  and  here  (striking  his  breast  J. 

Ges.     Her  name  ?     I  promise  not  to  harm  her. 

Boy.     You  have  already  harmed  her  beyond  bearing. 

Ges.    Boy,  'tis  false.    Her  name,  thy  mother's  name  is 

Boy.     Switzerland,  I  own  no  other  parent. 

Off.  Audacious  brat !  Thy  father  (pointing  to  Tell) 
dies  for  this. 

Boy.  My  father  cannot  die,  he  is  immortal  and  beyond 
your  power. 

Ges.  You  are  not  so  safe.  Officer,  bind  him  to  the 
stake,  and  let  a  slow,  sure  fire  teach  him  respect  for  power. 
He  evidently  is  quite  apt  at  learning  lessons. 

Tell.    You  will  not  punish  him  for  what  his  parent  taught, 

Ges.     We  will  not  ? 

Tell.     You  can  not.     E'en  cruelty  respects  a  noble  child. 

Ges.  Officer,  do  your  duty.  Such  noble  youth  would 
make  too  noble  men. 

Tell.     You  surely  are  in  jest,  and  can  not  burn  a  child. 

Ges.     No,  I  will  spare  his  life  on  one  condition. 

Tell.     Name  it,  if  it  be  not  dishonorable. 
I  pledge  myself  to  do  whate'er  is  possible  in  his  behalf. 

Ges.     Thou  art  an  archer. 

Tell.     True.     My  skill  is  hardly  equalled  on  the  hills. 

Ges.     I'd  see  thee  exercise  it  on  this  boy. 

Tell.  (Looking  at  him  with  amazement).  I'm  not  an 
executioner. 

Off.  My  lord,  let  him  not  kill  the  boy  at  once,  but  let 
him  aim  to  strike  an  apple  from  his  head. 

Ges.  'Tis  well.  I  do  adopt  thy  thought.  There's  mercy 
in  it,  too. 

Tell.     Mercy  !     God  of  mercy,  did'st  thou  hear  the  word  ! 

Ges.  No  matter,  so  thou  did'st.  (To  the  Officer),  place 
the  boy,  and  to  encourage  skill,  we  promise  life  to  both,  if 
he  the  apple  fairly  hits. 

Boy.  Father,  you  will  not  shoot !  I'd  rather  burn  than 
die  by  thy  dear  hand. 

Tell.  Be  silent  !  Close  ^.hine  eyes  that  thou  may'st 
start  not.     T  never  miss,   you  know.     Fear  not,   [the  child 


280  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

goes  out).  Forgive  me,  heaven,  'twere  kindness  to  de  teive 
him.     (To  Gesler).     How  many  shots  am  I  allowed  ? 

Ges.     But  one. 

Tell.  Childless  monster,  spare  the  boy  and  I  will  bow 
me  in  the  dust  before  thy  image  ;  nay  before  its  shadow, 
I  will  do  aught  the  meanest  worm  can  do,  and  thank  thee 
for  the  grace. 

Ges.  Pick  thy  arrow,  and  parley  not.  {He  holds  out  the 
quiver  to  Tell,  who  takes  one  arrow^  and  pointing  with  it  at 
something  behind  the  tyrant^  Gesler  turns  his  head  to  look, 
and  Tell  quickly  takes  a  second  arrow  and  conceals  it  in  his 
dress.  While  Tell  is  trying  the  bow  and  arrow,  Gesler  says,) 
There  is  the  mark  ! 

Tell.  Heaven  guard  it,  and  forgive  the  desperation  of 
the  act.     God  of  the  innocent,  direct  the  shaft !    {He  shoots.) 

Ges.     The  apple's  cleft,  by  heaven  ! 

Tell.  To  heaven  all  thanks.  {As  he  raises  his  hands  to 
heaven  the  co^vcealed  arrow  falls  ;  Gesle^  picks  it  up  and 
says  sarcastically) — 

Ges.  Dost  use  two  arrows  for  a  single  Jiot  ? 

Tell.  The  second  was  for  Gesler,  had  the  first  one 
failed. 


CVn.      TIIE  PRINTER  AND  THE  DUTCH- 
MAN. 

(The  Dutchman  sitting  at  the  door  of  his  tavern  in  the  far 
West,  is  approached  by  a  tall,  thin  Yankee,  who  is  emigrat- 
ing Westward,  on  foot,  with  a  bundle  on  a  cane  over  his 
shoulder.) 

Dutchman.     Veil,  Mishter  Valking  Shtick,  vat  you  vant  ? 
Printer.     Rest  and  refreshments. 
D.     Supper  and  lotchin,  I  reckon. 
P.     Yes,  supper  and  lodging,  if  you  please. 
D.     Pe  ye  a  Yankee  peddler,  mit  chewelry  in  your  pack 
to  sheat  te  gals  ? 


281 

P.     No,  sir,  I  am  no  Yankee  peddler. 

D.     A  singin-maister,  too  lazy  to  work  ? 

P.     No,  sir. 

D.  A  shenteel  shoemaker  vat  loves  to  measure  te  gals 
foots  and  hankies  better  tan  to  make  te  shoes  ? 

P.     No,  sir,  or  1  should  have  mended  my  own  shoes. 

D.  A  book  achent,  vot  bodders  te  shcool  committees 
till  they  do  vat  you  vish,  choost  to  get  rid  of  you  ? 

P.     Guess  again,  sir.     I  am  no  book  agent. 

D.  Te  tyfels  !  a  dentist  preaking  the  people's  jaws  at 
a  dollar  a  shnag,  and  runnin  off  mit  my  taughter  ? 

P.     No,  sir,  I  am  no  tooth-puller. 

D.  Phrenologus,  den,  feelin  te  young  folks  heads  like 
so  many  cabbitch  ? 

P.     No,  I  am  no  phrenologist. 

Z>.  Veil,  ten,  vat  te  tyfels  can  you  pe  ?  Choost  tell, 
and  you  stiall  have  te  besht  sasage  for  supper,  and  shtay 
all  night,  free  gratis,  mitout  a  cent,  and  a  chill  of  wishkey 
to  start  mit  in  te  mornin. 

P.  I  am  an  humble  disciple  of  Faust,  —  a  professor  of 
the  art  that  preserves  all  arts,  —  a  typographer,  at  your  ser- 
vice. 

D.     Votsch  dat  ? 

P.  A  printer,  sir,  a  man  that  prints  books  and  newspa- 
pers. 

D.  A  man  vot  printsh  nooshpapers  !  O,  yaw  !  yaw ! 
ay,  dat  ish  it.  A  man  vot  printsh  nooshpapers  I  Yaw, 
yaw !  Valk  up  !  a  man  vot  printsh  nooshpapers  !  I  vish 
I  may  pe  shot  if  I  did  not  tink  you  vas  a  poor  tyfel  of  a 
dishtiick  shcool-maister,  who  verks  for  nottin,  and  boards 
round.     I  tought  you  vas  him. 


285  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

CVIII,   THE  YANKEE  IN  FRANCE. 

A   FKENCHMAN   AND  YANKEE. 

Yankee.  This  is  a  funny  country  as  ever  I  saw.  I  don't 
gee  how  they  contrive  to  make  things  look  so  different  from 
any  thing  I  ever  saw  at  home.  I  hope  the  folks  are  not  as 
strange  as  the  houses,  and  the  other  things.  But  here  comes 
ons  of  them,  and  I'll  question  him  a  little. 
{Enter  a  Frenchman,  who  raises  his  hat  to  the  Yankee,  who 
forgets  to  touch  his,  but  says) — 

Yank.     Sir,  can  you  inform  a  stranger  what  place  this  is  ? 

Frenchman.     Je  n'entend  pas. 

Yank.  Nong-tong-pah.  Ah  !  that  must  be  a  Chinese 
name.  O  dear,  what  will  become  of  me  if  I  have  been 
wrecked  on  the  coast  of  China !  I  shall  never  see  home 
again,  that's  as  clear  as  city  milk.  But  I'll  inquire  further. 
Mister,  who's  the  king  of  this  country  .'' 

Fr.     Je  n'entend  pas. 

Yank.  Nong-tong-pah !  Why  that's  the  same  as  the 
name  of  the  country,  isn't  it?  Well,  that's  funny  enough. 
Pray,  friend,  where  does  the  king  live  ? 

Fr.     Je  n'entend  pas.     Je  n'entend  pas  du  tout. 

Yank.  At  Nong-tong-pah,  too,  does  he  ?  Well  that's 
funnier  still  !  I  guess  he  likes  the  name.  But  look  here, 
stranger,  I'm  plaguy  hungry,  and  should  like  some  victuals. 
What  do  you  have  to  eat  in  this  funny  country,  hey :  1 
don't  mean,  do  you  eat  hay,  but  what  do  you  eat  ? 

Fr.     Je  n'entend  pas. 

Yank.  The  dogs  you  do  !  Eat  nong-tong-pah  !  Look 
here,  I  say,  what  do  you  mean  by  telling  me  these,  I  wont  call 
them  lies,  because  they  may  be  mistakes,  for  even  a  school- 
master may  make  a  mistake  in  the  matter  of  geography. 
Pray  mister,  what  do  you  think  I  am  ? 

Fr.     Monsieur,  Je  n'entend  pas  du  tout. 

Yank.  No,  there  you  missed  it.  I'm  not  a  nong-tong- 
fah,  too,  by  a  good  deal,  but  a  true  blooded  Yankee.  Do 
you  ko  3w  what  a  Yankee  is  ?     Tell  me  that. 

Fr.     Monsieur,  Je  n'entend  pas. 


DIALOGUES.  283 

Yank.  No,  be  isn't.  A  true-blooded  Yankee  is  no  more 
like  a  nong-tong-pah  tban  a  tootb-pick  is  like  a  crow-bar. 
Pray,  what  sort  of  schools  have  you  in  this  country  r  Who's 
your  School  Agent  or  Prudential  Committee  ?  (  The  French- 
vian  shaking  his  head.)  What,  haven't  you  got  any  ?  Well 
I  s'pose  you  haven't,  nor  anything  else  that's  decent.  But 
look  here,  what  denomination  do  you  belong  to,  hey  ? 
What's  your  minister's  name  ? 

Fr.  Je  n'entend  pas.     Je  n'entend  pas. 

Yank.  Nong-tong-pah.  I  don't  believe  it,  I  don't  be- 
lieve it,  by  gracious  !  You  must  think  I'm  green  as  grass, 
if  you  expect  to  come  over  mo  in  this  fashion.  But  I'm  too 
hungry  to  lose  any  more  time.  Who  keeps  the  tavern  in 
your  place  ?     I'll  try  to  beg  a  meal's  victuals  at  any  rate. 

Fr.   Monsieur,  je  n'entend  pas. 

Yank.  Don't  tell  me  that  again.  I  don't  believe  the 
king  keeps  tavern.  But  look  here  !  There  goes  a  funeral. 
Who's  dead  ?     Do  you  know  that  ? 

Fr.     Monsieur,  Je  n'entend.  pas,  je  n'entend  pas. 

Yank.  What !  is  he  dead  ?  Well  I  should  think  it  was 
enough  to  kill  any  man  to  be  a  king,  a  school  committee 
man,  a  parson  and  a  tavern  keeper.  Who  was  his  doctor  ? 
Do  you  know  that? 

Fr.     Je  n'entend  pas. 

Yank.  Nong-tong-pah  his  own  doctor!  Well,  no  won- 
der he  died.  But,  I  say,  why  don't  you  ask  me  some  ques- 
tions about  7713/  country  ?  I  could  tell  you  every  thing  about 
it.  I  know  everybody,  from  Squire  Jones  down  to  Jim 
Doolittle.  We  don't  heap  all  our  offices  on  the  same  man 
as  you  do,  'cause,  you  see,  if  he  dies,  as  Nong-tong-pah  has 
done,  there's  nobody  to  carry  on  things,  O  dear,  how  hun- 
gry I  am  !  Come,  old  fellow  {taking  him  hy  the  arm)  sllo^\ 
me  where  the  tavern  is,  for  if  old  Nong-tong-pah  is  de^td, 
I  'spose  the  widder  '11  carry  on  the  consarn.  Come,  come 
along. 


t84 


HUNDRED  DIALOGUES. 


CIX.   MONSIEUR  ATsD  HIS  ENGLISH  jMAS- 
TER. 

Frenchman.  No  sair,  I  nevair  skall,  can,  will  learn  your 
vile  langue.  De  verbs  miglit  —  should — could  —  would 
put  me  to  death. 

Master.  You  must  be  patient.  Our  verb  is  very  simple 
compared  with  yours. 

F.  Sample  !*'  vat  you  call  sample  ?  When  I  say  que  je 
fiisse,  you  say,  dat  I  might-could-would-should-have-been. 
Ma  foi,  ver  sample  dat !  Now,  sair,  tell  to  me,  if  you 
please,  what  you  call  one  verb  I 

M.  A  verb  is  a  word  that  signifies  to  be,  to  do,  or  to 
suffer. 

F.  Eh  bien  !  when  I  say,  1  can't,  which  I  say,  I  be,  I 
do,  or  I  suffare  ? 

M.     It  may  be  hard  to  say  in  that  particular  case. 

F.  Ma  foi,  how  I  might-could-would-should  am  to  know 
dat?  But  tell  to  me,  if  you  please,  what  you  mean  when 
you  say,  "  de  verb  is  a  word."  . 

M.  A  means  one,  and  it  is  the  same  as  to  say,  the  verb 
is  one  word. 

F.  Eh  bien  !  Den  when  I  me  serve  of  I  might-could- 
would-should-havc-been-loved,  I  use  one  verb.  Huh! 
{with  a  shrug.) 

M.     Yes,  certainly. 

F.  And  that  verb  is  one  word  !  I  tinks  him  ver  long 
word,  wiz  more  joints  dan  de  scorpion  have  in  his  tail. 

M.     But  we  do  not  use  all  the  auxiliaries  at  once. 

F.     How  many  you  use  once  ? 

M.  One  at  a  time.  We  say  I  mig^i-have-been-loved, 
or  I  cowZrf-have-been-loved. 

F.  And  dat  is  only  one  word !  What  you  mean  by  I 
could  7 

M.     I  was  able. 

F.     Ver  well.     What  you  mean  by  have  1 

M.  Hold,  possess.  It  is  difficult  to  say  what  it  means 
ipart  from  the  other  words. 

^Sani  as  in  Samuel. 


285 

F.  Why  you  use  him  apart  den  ?  But  what  you  mean 
by  been  ? 

M.     Existed.     There  is  no  exact  synonyme. 

F.  Ver  well.  Den  when  I  say,  1  could-have-heen 
loved,  that  wills  to  say,  I  was-ahle-hold-existed-loved,  and 
dis  is  one  word.  De  Frensh  shild,  no  higher  as  dat,  (hold- 
ing his  hand  about  as  high  as  his  knees,)  he  might-could- 
would-should-count  four  words,  widout  de  pronoun.  Bah! 
I  shall  nevair  learn  de  English  verb  ;  no,  nevair,  no  time. 

M.  When  you  hear  me  use  a  verb,  you  must  acquire 
the  habit  of  conjugating  it,  just  as,  I  love,  thou  lovest,  he 
loves  ;  and  believe  me,  you  can't  become  familiar  with  the 
modes  and  tenses  in  any  other  way. 

F.  Well,  den,  I  shall,  will,  begin  wiz  can't.  I  can't, 
zhou  can'test,  he  can'ts ;  we  can't,  ye  or  you  can't,  zey 
can't. 

M.  Xt  is  not  so.  Can't  is  a  contraction  of  the  verb  can- 
not.       ' 

F.  Well  zhen.  I  cannot,  zhou  cannotest,  he  cannot- 
eth  or  he  cannots  ;   we  — 

M,     No,  no !    Cannot  is  two  words,  can  and  not. 

F.     Den  what  for  you  tie  him  togezzer  ? 

M.     I  see  I  ain't  careful  enough  in  my  expressions. 

F.  Stop !  hold  dere,  if  you  please,  I  will-shall  once 
more  try.     I  ain't,  zhou  ain'test,  he  ain'ts  ;   we  — 

M.  Ain't  is  not  a  verb,  it  is  only  a  corruption.  I  wont 
use  it  again. 

F.  Ma  foi !  it  is  all  one  corruption.  May  or  can  I  say 
I  wont,  zhou  wontest,  he  wonts  ? 

M.     No,  you  can't  say  so. 

F.  What  den?  I  might-could- would-should-don' t- 
ain't- wont-can' t  ? 

M.  No,  you  can't  say  any  such  thing,  for  these  verbs 
are  all  irregulars,  and  must  not  be  so  used. 

F.  Mnss,  what  you  call  muss  ?  I  muss,  zhou  mussest, 
he  musses.     You  say  so  ? 

M.     No,  no  no. 

F.  Well  den,  I  might-could-would-should-have-been- 
muss,  —  how  d  it  ? 

M.  Must  is  irregular.  It  never  changes  its  termina- 
tion- 


286  fowle's  hundred    dialogues. 

F.  Den  what  for,  why  you  call  him  irregulaire,  if  he  no 
shange  ?  Ma  foi,  he  might-could-would-shonld  -be  ver 
regulaire,  ver  regulaire  indeed.  Who  makes  degrammaire 
English  ? 

M.     Nobody  in  particular. 

F.  So  I  tinks,  I  might-could-would-should-guess  so.  I 
shall-will-muss-can-understand  nevair  one  grammairc, 
which  say  de  verb  be  one  word  when  he  be  four,  five,  six, 
half-dozen,  and  den  call  irregulaire  de  only  uniform  verb 
dat  nevair  shange.  Scusey  moi,  Monsieur,  I  will-may- 
can-might-could-would-should  study  such  horrible  gram- 
maire  nevair,  no  more. 


ex.      THE  MODEL  SCHOOL. 

[The  piece  may  be  used  for  boys  or  girls,  or  both,  by  merely  chang- 
ing the  names.  ] 


./ 


1;  ;iiEBEccA,  a  large  £irl. 


THE  COMMITTEE, 'a  Zarfr^ //?' 

SARAH,  ^^^fSUSAN,  '       f    HOPE,        ,„.    ^^JiUTK, 

,      MARY,  .TANE,  .,  JOSIE,  KATE, 

^  y>>ANNA,  ^LIZZIE,  ^,:  ELLEN,         ,, ,- ^KITTY. 

/  r    ',    ^  AN^P  ANY  NUMBER  OF  OTHER  PUPILS. 

Sarah.  Come,  girls,  let's  play  school.  Ma'am  has  gone 
a  visiting,  I  guess,  and  we  may  have  some  sport  before  she 
returns.     Becky,  you  be  mistress,  will  you  ? 

Rebecca.  {Rings  the  small  bell.)  Take  seats,  all,  and 
put  your  hands  behind  you. 

Sarah.     Ma'am,  may  I  whisper  ? 

Rebecca.     No,  all  whispering  is  forbidden. 

Mary.     I  guess  you  can't  hinder  it. 

Rebecca.  {Solemnly.)  Mary  Jones,  stand  out  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor.  {She  does  so.)  Children,  attend  all. 
{Very  solemnly.)  Mary  Jones,  you  have  been  guilty  of  a 
serious  misdemeanor. 

Mary.     Miss  who,  Ma'am! 


FOWLH'i^    11UNDKJ:D    DI^LOGtnS^^  287 

Uebecca.  You  have  been  guilty- of  a-jenot^  offence,  and 
you  must  say  you  are  sorry  for  it  bef  re  \k^  whole  school. 
Whispering  in  sehool  is  an  offcuRi  that  ocp  not  be  forgiven. 
You  see  itlinterrupts  order,^p^iTuptb  ir^anners,  and  lays  the 
foundation  for  every^evil.  .4^^iT  ^ones,  are   you  sorry  for 

your  conduct?        ^^-"-^-7^^^  -*,',,     ,.  ^       , 

'  Mary.  No,  nja'aj*^  J-  <iidn  t  whisper,  I  only  told  you 
1  ffuessed  you  coW^'*  hinder  it,  and  I  guess  you  can't ; 
and  so,  ma'^pa,  j^^i  see,  ftia'am,  you  have  made  your  speech 

Anna,     y^^^^^  Rebecca,  may  1  ask  a  question  ? 
Rehec^'-    ^^®'  ^^  ^^  ^®  ^  proper  one.     Ruth,  don't  pull 

„L:.t's "h-air.     What  is  your  question,  Anna? 
'AvF'  "^^^^^  is  worst,  whispering  or  longing  to  whisper  ? 
j^jtoc^t.     The  question  is  an  improper  one. 
jina^    All  are  that  puzzle  the  teacher. 
'bec»a.     I  mark  Anna  for  impertinence.     First  class  in 
i  im^  come  out.     The  rest  of  you  study  your  lessons. 
jAzzie.     We  haven't  any  to  study,  marm  dear. 
Rebb&ca.     Then  put  your  hands  behind  you.     Silence ! 
,iate,  tell  me  what  is  a  verb. 
Kate.     Anything  that  he's,  and  does,  and  suffers. 
Rpl^ecca.     {Strikes  Kitty  Snow,  a  little  girl,  for  pinching 
another.)     Susan,  can  you  name  any  verbs  ? 

Susan.     Yes,  ma'am,  Kitty  Snow  is  a  verb,  for  she  bo's, 
anci^does  naughty,  and  suffers  for  it. 

Rebecca.     Very  well,  what  is  a  noun,  Jane  Smith  ? 
Jane.     A  noun  is  a  notion,  ma'am. 
Rebecca.     Did  you  ever  see  any  ? 
Jane.     Yes,  ma'am,  Boston's  full  of  them. 
Rebecca.     Lizzie,  in  the  sentence,  John  tells  lies,  what  i« 
the  subj  ect,  and  what  the  predicate  ? 

Lizzie.      The  subject  depends  on  circumstances,  ma'am, 
but  John  is  in  the  predicament. 

Rebecca.     Hope  Smith,  what  is  an  article  ? 
Hope.     A  piece  of  goods,  ma'am. 

Rebecca.     How  many  kinds  of  articles  are  there,  Josie? 
Josie.      Ever  so  many,  ma'am,  the  shops  are  full  of  'em. 
Rebecca.      That's  an  indefinite  answer,  miss.      Sit.     Let 
the  spelling  class  come  out. 

Josie.     Please,  ma'am,  Ellen  Bird  is  singing. 
Rebecca.     Ellen  Bird,  how  dare  you  sing? 


288  FH^WL^^    HUNDRED    DIALOGUES. 


ma'am.      I'm  not 


Rebecca,  I'm  gjadji>t«^r  it,  for  any  child  who  sings  in 
school  betrays  such  a-d^piavVi  heart,  that  she  should  never 
oe  allowed  to  grow  up. ..  I  £i>i-™xiily  lyarn  you  all  against 
such  immorality. 

Rviih,     Marm,  Lizzie  wants  'to  kn^^v  if  she  may  sneeze 

Rebecca.  No,  sneezing  is  for>>i^a:e^  'iStm  hold  your 
tongues,  all, 

( The  children  all  take  hold  of  their  tongu^^  \ 

Rebecca.  O  dear  !  you  simpletons.  "F-t  „„^  l^ands  be- 
hind you.     Sarah  spell  Projntiation.  '' 

Sarah. .       p-r-o,  pro,  p-i-s-h,  pish, — 

Rebecca.     Wrong.     Next. 

Sarah.     Please,  Missis  Rebecca,  don't  p-i-s-h  spe-  pjgj,  y     / 

Rebecca.     Don't  be  pert.     Mary  spell  Propiitattp     (^  / 

Mary,     p-r-o,  pro,  p-e,  pe,  s-h-e,  she —  -^    ' 

Rebecca.     Next,  Propitiation,  Anna. 

Anna.  P-r-o,  pro,  p-e-e,  pe^  pro-pe,  s-h-e-s-h-a-s-h  _^ . 
please,  ma'am,  what's  the  word? 

Rebecca.  The  word  is  pro,  py,  ty,  a,  ty,  on,  nciw  s^jj 
it,  Ruth.  \ 

Ruth.  P-r-o,  pro,  p-y,  py,  t-y,  ty,  o  s-h-y  ;  pto,  p: 
she,  a,  she,  o,  she,  shun.  / 

Rebecca,     Kitty  Snow,  can  you  spell  it  ? 

Kitty,     Yes,  marm,  i-t,  it. 

Rebecca.  Go  off  I  you  are  all  marked  for  neglected  les- 
sons.    Let  the  Jography  class  come  out. 

( WJicn  they  are  formed,  Rebecca  says,) 

Rebecca.     Sarah,  what  is  a  Cape  ? 

Sarah.     A  sort  of  shawl,  fastened  to  the  collar  of  a  cloak 

when  it  don't  happen  to  be  loose. 

Rebecca.  Don't  be  pert,  Miss.  Susan,  where  is  Ire- 
land? 

Susan.  1  don't  know.  Father  says  it  has  all  come  over 
to  New  York. 

Rebecca.     Kate  McNary,  can,  you  tell  ?     Where  did  you    | 
live  before  you  came  here  ? 

Kate.     In  the  city  of  Corrk,  marrm,  dear. 

Rebecca.     Mary  O' Carroty,  where  did  you  live  ? 

Mary.     Next  cellar  to  Kate  McNary,  please  marrm. 


7 


/ 


289 

Rebecca.   '  O  dear!  Sarah,  what  does  your  book  say? 
Sarah.     It  doesn't  talk,  marrm  dear. 
Rebecca.     If  there's   any  more  such  conduct,  I'll  send 
for  the  School  Committee,  and  then  you'll  get  it. 
Mary.     Get  what,  marrm  ^ 

Rebec.  Get  your  nefeks^^hroken,  some  of  you.  Josie, 
what  do  you  mean  by  leaving  your  place  ?  Do  you  not 
know  that  you  break  the  law,  and  set  a  bad  example  ?  1 
must  have  a  solemn  talk  with  you  on  the  influence  of  ex- 
ample. Hope  Smith,  what  are  you  doing  ? 
Hope.     Nothing,  ma'am.  r^:.?^sBfc. 

Rebec.  Come  here  and  let  me  do  nothing  to  you.  (Hope 
comes  up  and  Rebecca,  pinching  her,  says) — How  do  you 
like  to  have  nothing  done  to  you  ?  Kitty  Snow,  come  here 
and  be  whipped. 

Kitty. ^^  I  wont,  I  don't  like  to  be  whipped. 
Rebec.  You  wont  ?  Why,  Kitty,  do  you  know  that  the 
sin  of  disobedience  will  never  be  forgiven.  Come  here  or 
I  shall  come  to  you.  {She  goes  to  her  and  slaps  her.)  There, 
now  thank  me  for  punishing  you.  It  is  all  for  your  good. 
Do  you  thank  me  ? 

Kitty.'    No,  I  don't,  I  wont  lie  to  please  anybody. 
Sarah.     Marm,  I  can't  get  my  Jography  lesson. 
Rebec.     You  got  It  when  I  gave  it  to  you. 
Sarah.     I  mean  I  can't  learn  it,  ma'am,  I  don't  under- 
stand it  at  all  at  all. 

Rebec.     You  need  not  understand  it  to  learn  it.     The 
book  tells  you  what  to  say,  don't  it  ? 
Sarah.     Yes  ma'am. 

Rebecca.     Then  what  do  you  bother  you  teacher  for  ? 
Lizzie.     Ma'am,  may  I  hear  the  lowest  class  read  ? 
Rebecca.     No,  no  child  can  teach  another.     You  taught 
the  little  ones  to  disobey  me. 

Lizzie.     I  thought  you  said  children  couldn't  teach  others, 
ma'am.  •• 

Rebecca.     You  will  stop  after  school  for  impertinence, 
Miss. 

Ruth^     Please  ma'am,  the  Committee  is  coming. 
Rebecca.     Silence  all !     Sit  still.     Now  if  any  one  whis- 
pers or  leaves  her  place  while  the   Committee  is  here,  she 


35 


t 


290  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

shall  be  whipped  as  long  as  lean  stand  over  her,     {One  of 
the  scholars  with  a  cloak  and  hat  on  enters.) 

Rehecca.     Please  to  be  seated,  sir. 

Committee.     Hem  !  hem  !  hem  ! 

Rebecca.     What  exercise  will  you  please  to  hear,  sir  ? 

Com,     You  may  call  out  the  highest  reading  class,  hem  ! 
hem  !     I  will  examine  them  myself.     Hem  ! 
{Sarah,  Mary,  Jane,  Hope,  Lizzie  and  Josie,  stand  up.) 

Com,     Have  you  studied  Rhetoric,  scholars  ?     Hem  ! 

ATI.     Yes,  sir. 

Com.     Tell  me,  young  woman   {speaking  to  Sarah)  what 
is  meant  by  pitch  ? 

Sarah.     Pitch,  sir,  pitch  is  not  tar. 

Com.     Next,     What  is  the  difference  between  the  up- 
ward slide  and  the  downward  slide  ?     Hem  ! 

Many.      One  slips  down  and  the  other  don't! 

Coju.     What  is  an  infliction  of  the  voice  ? 

Jane.     Reading  too  loud  or  too  long,  sir. 

Com.     What   is    meant   by  figurative   language  ?    next 
scholar.      Hem  !    hem  ! 

Hope.     Ciphering,  sir. 

Com.     Next,   you  may  read  —  Lines   on  a  Grave  Yard, 
page  377.     Hem  ! 

Lizzie.     (Reads.) 

"  How  frightful  the  grave  !  how  deserted  and  drear^ 

With  the  howls  of  the  storm-wind,  the  creaks  of  the  bier. 
And  the  white  bones  all  clattering  together." 

Com.    Analyze  now.     Next,  "  How  frightful  the  grave  !  " 
What  slide  is  there  at  the  grave  I  hem ! 

Josie.     The  downward  slide,  sir,  I  should  think. 

Com.     What  is  meant  by  "  The  creaks  of  the   bier  I  " 
hem  I 

Sarah.     A  creek  is  an  inlet,  sir,  and  beer  is  ale.     Inlets 
of  drink,  sir. 

Co7n.     In  what  tone  must  this  passage   about  the  grave 
be  read  ?  hem  ! 

Mary.     In  the  grave  tone,  sir. 

Com.     Very  well.     Have  any   of  your  scholars  learned 
to  sing  ? 

Rebecca.     Yes,  sir.      1st  class  sing  the  Cobbler. 

{The  teacher  may  introduce  any  song  she  pleases.) 


fowle's  hundred  dialogues.  291 

Com.     Have  they  learned  to  declaim,  Miss  ? 
Reh^ifSL'     Yes,  sir. 
Com.     Let  me  hear  one,  hem  ! 
{All  the  children  give  one  loud  Hem  !  ) 
Rebecca.     Kate,  come  here,   and  speak  the  Ode  to  the 
Committee, 

Kate,     "  August  and  reverend  Sir,  long  erst 
This  beauteous  world  from  chaos  burst, 
And  light  and  order  had  began, 
There  wasn't  no  Committee  man. 
No  dee-strick  school,  no  school-hus,  nor 
Nothing  that  is  our  eyes  before. 
And  still  the  world  in  clouds  had  lived 
Had  not  the  Yankee  mind  contrived, 
By  force  of  its  creative  skill, 
The  glorious  office  you  now  fill. 
And  when  the  sky  shall  up  be  rolled, 
And  time's  last  solemn  dirge  be  tolled, 
Thy  office  mightier  still  shall  grow, 
And  kings  and  emperors  shall  bow, 
And  own,  that,  since  the  world  began, 
There's  nought  like  a  Committee  man. 
Rebecca.     Children,  all  rise,    and  attend  to  the  remarks 
of  the  honorable  Committee. 

{All  rise  and  the  Committee  says.) 

Com.  Hem!  My  young  friends,  I  am  so,  hem!  over- 
whelmed by  my  responsibilities  as  guardian  and  overseer  of 
this  important,  hem !  seminary,  that  I  know  not  what  to 
say  on  this  occasion.  Your  lot,  hem !  is  cast  in  pleasant 
places,  —  or  will  be  when  you  get  a  new  school-house. 
We  have  the  best  schools  in  the  world,  —  or  hope  to  have. 
Our  teachers  are  able,  —  or  ought  to  be  ;  and  our  commit- 
tee-men, hem!  are,  hem  !  what  it  does  not  become  me  to 
say.  1  never  look  on  such  a  school  as  this,  without  think- 
ing, that,  perhaps,  I  am,  hem !  looking  upon  some  fu- 
ture President,  Governor,  or  School  Committee-man  of  this 
mighty  continent,  the  controllers  of  manifest  destiny,  the 
future  rulers  of  the  world.  Be  good  girls,  now,  and  mind 
your  teacher.     Hem  !  hem  ! 

{He  goes  out,  the  children  bowing  or  curtseying  with  be- 
coming solemnity.^ 


i 


292 

Rebecca,  Now,  children,  you  have  behaved  so  well,  1 
am  going  to  dismiss  you  ;  but  be  careful  not  to  rus||i^out  all 
together,  as  you  always  do.  To  encourage  you  to  retire  in 
order,  I  promise  a  reward  to  the  one  who  goes  out  last. 
There,  you  are  all  dismissed.  {No  child  stirs.)  Why 
don't  you  go  home  ! 

Hope.     We  are  all  waiting  to  go  out  last. 

Rebecca.  O,  I  see.  I  withdraw  the  promised  reward 
then. 

{All  rush  out  in  great  confusion.) 


► 


CXI.      THE  LADY-MAID. 

GENTI.EMAN    AND    LADY. 

Gent,     Is  Miss  Bartoon  within  ? 

Lady.     (Smiling  at  the  question)  She  is  so,  I  believe. 

G,     Can  I  see  her  ? 

L.  {Looking  at  his  eyes)  I  think  you  can.  What  would 
you  say  to  her  through  me  ? 

G.  You  know  her,  then?  Excuse  the  question,  if  it 
seem  a  strange  one. 

L,  I  know  her  ?  To  be  sure  I  do.  But  pray,  why  ask 
me  such  a  question  ? 

G.  Because  all  tongues  applaud  her,  and  I  fear,  if  all 
is  true,  that  I  have  come  in  vain.  Say,  do  you  know  her 
well? 

L,     I  know  her  intimately,  I  must  own. 

G,     Your — mistress,  may  I  ask  ? 

L.     Why y-e-s,  I'm  subject  to  her  will. 

G.     She  treats  you  well  ? 

L.     She  is  but  too  indulgent. 

G.     You  love  her  then,  of  course. 

L,     Yes,  as  I  do  myself. 

G.     Say,  is  she  fair  ? 

L.     Women  are  unsafe  judges  of  each  other. 

G.  How  does  yonr  mistress  with  yourself  compare? 
You  surely  will  not  overrate  her  now. 


fowle's  hufdred  dialogues.  293 

L.  It  is  but  faintest  praise  to  say  that,  in  my  best  es- 
tate, sl^  never  falls  below  me. 

G.  Good!  And  now  one  more  strange  question.  WAX 
she  make  me a  good  wife  ? 

L.  She  could  not  say,  not  knowing  how  you  judge  ;  and 
how  can  I  decide  ? 

G.     You  know  if  she  is  engaged  ^ 

L,     I  think  she  is,  {smiling)  unusually  so. 

G.     I  mean,  is  she  betrothed  or  free  ? 

L.  I  can  not,  sir,  betray  her  secrets,  till  I  know  your 
motive  for  this  singular  inquest. 

G.     I'm  searching  for  a  wife. 

L.     She  is  not  one,  I'll  answer  you  thus  far. 

G.     I  wish  to  make  her  mine. 

L.     She  knows,  sir,  of  your  wish. 

G'  The  deuce,  she  does !  Who  could  have  told  her 
that  .^ 

L,     Yourself. 

G.  'Tis  false  ! — Excuse  me,  miss,  I  never  told  my  wish 
but  to  yourself. 

L.     I  never  could  have  told  her  ;  yet  she  knows. 

G.     What  thinks  she  of  it,  then  ? 

L.     Of  what  ? 

G,     Of  marriage. 

L.     Favorably  of  marriage  in  the  abstract. 

G,     But  what  of  marrying  me  ? 

L.     She  must  speak  for  herself. 

G.     Where  can  I  see  her  without  more  delay  ? 

L.     Here. 

G.     And  when  r 

L.     Now. 

G.     How  can  I  see  her  now,  and  she  away  ? 

L.     You  can  not. 

G.  Explain  these  paradoxes,  or  I  shall  go  mad.  Who 
are  you,  miss  ?  no  servant,  I  am  sure. 

L.  Yes,  her  servant,  truly,  though  quite  near  of  kin. 
*Tis  said  that  I  resemble  her  in  many  points. 

G.     If  she  resembles  you,  I'll  take  her  instantly. 

L.  Whether  she  will  accept  or  not  ?  It  may  take  two 
to  make  the  bargain.  Sir,  imless  you  mean  to  give,  and 
ask  for  no  return. 


i 


294 

G.     If  she  refuses  me,  I'll  marry  you. 

L.     I  should  not  take  her  leavings. 

G.  Then  let  her  go.  If  you  accept  me  first,  I'm  yours. 
What  say  you  ? 

L.     But  she  too  will  accept,  I  know  she  will. 

G.     My  bow  then  has  two  strings  that  cross  each  other. 

L.  Not  so,  exactly ;  for  the  two  may  haply  e'en  be 
twisted  into  one. 

G.  These  paradoxes  craze  my  brain.  You  surely  are 
not  she  I  seek  ? 

L.     'Tis  now  my  turn  to  contradict,  or  to  belie  the  truth. 

G.  Well  twisted,  by  my  faith  !  And  you  will  give  me 
your  free  hand  ? 

L.  Yes,  both  of  them.  This,  for  the  servant ;  for  the 
mistress,  this. 

G.  'Tis  gloriously  done !  I'll  wed  the  servant  for  her- 
self, and  take  the  mistress  at  the  servant's  word. 


I 


CXn.      THE  WILL. 

SQUIRE    DRAWIi,  FRANK  MILLINGTON", 

MR.  SWIPES,  a  brewer,        mr.  currier,  a  saddler. 

Swipes,  A  sober  occasion  this,  brother  Currie.  Who 
would  have  thought  the  old  lady  was  so  near  her  end  ? 

Currie.  Ah  !  we  must  all  die,  brother  Swipes,  and  those 
who  live  longest  only  bury  the  most. 

Swipes.  True,  true  ;  but,  since  we  must  die  and  leave 
our  earthly  possessions,  it  is  well  that  the  law  takes  such 
good  care  of  us.  Had  the  old  lady  her  senses  when  she 
departed  ? 

Currie.  Perfectly,  perfectly.  Squire  Drawl  told  me 
she  read  every  word  of  her  testament  aloud,  and  never 
signed  her  name  better. 

Swipes.  Had  you  any  hint  from  the  Squire  what  dispo- 
sition sho  nade  of  her  property  ? 

Currie,     Not  a  whisper ;   the  Squire  is  as  close  as  an 


295 

underground  tomb ;  but  one  of  tbe  witnesses  "hinted  to  me 
that  shg  has  cut  off  her  graceless  nephew  with  a  cent. 

Swipes.  Has  she,  good  soul  !  has  she  ?  you  know  1 
come  in  then,  in  right  of  my  wife. 

Currie.  And  I  in  my  own  right ;  and  this  is,  no  doubt, 
the  reason  why  we  have  been  called  to  hear  the  reading  of 
the  will.  Squire  Drawl  knows  how  things  should  be  done, 
though  he  is  as  air-tight  as  your  beer  barrels.  But  here 
comes  the  young  reprobate  ;  he  must  be  present  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  you  know.  [^Enter  Frank Millington.^  Your 
servant,  young  gentleman.  So,  your  benefactress  has  left 
you  at  last. 

Swipes.  It  is  a  painful  thing  to  part  with  old  and 
good  friends,  Mr.  Millington. 

Frank.  It  is  so,  sir ;  but  I  could  bear  her  loss  better, 
had  I  not  been  so  ungrateful  for  her  kindness.  She  was 
my  only  friend,  and  I  knew  not  her  value. 

Currie.  It  is  too  late  to  repent,  Master  Millington. 
You  will  now  have  a  chance  to  earn  your  own  bread 

Swipes.  Ay,  by  the  sweat  of  your  brow,  as  better  peo- 
ple are  obliged  to.  You  wcPild  make  a  fine  brewer's  boy, 
if  you  were  not  too  old. 

Currie.  Ay,  or  a  saddler's  lackey,  if  held  with  a  tight 
rein. 

Frank.  Gentlemen,  your  remarks  imply  that  my  aunt 
has  treated  me  as  I  deserved.  I  am  above  your  insults, 
and  only  hope  you  will  bear  your  fortune  as  modestly  as  I 
shall  mine  submissively.     I  shall  retire. 

IGoing,  he  meets  the  Squire.'] 

Squire.  Stop,  stop,  young  man  !  We  must  have  your 
presence.  Good  morning,  gentlemen ;  you  are  early  on 
the  ground. 

Currie.     I  hope  the  Squire  is  well  to-day. 

Squire.     Pretty  comfortable  for  an  invalid.    \_Coughing.~\ 

Swipes.  I  trust  the  damp  air  has  not  affected  the  Squire's 
lungs  again. 

Squire.  No,  I  believe  not ;  you  know  I  never  hurry. 
Slow  and  sure  is  my  maxim.  Well,  since  the  heirs  at  law 
are  all  convened,  I  shall  proceed  to  open  the  last  will  and 
testament  of  your  deceased  relative,  according  to  law. 

Swipes.  [  While  the  Squire  is  hreakivg  the  seal]  It  is  a  try- 


I 


296 

ing  scene  to  leave  all  one's  possessions, Squire, in  this  manner. 

Currie.  It  really  makes  me  feel  melancholy  when  I  look 
round,  and  see  everything  but  the  venerable  owner  of  these 
goods.     Well  did  the  Preacher  say,  "  All  is  vanity.'* 

Squire.  Please  to  be  seated  gentlemen.  \_All  sit.  The 
Squire^  having  put  on  his  spectacles,  begins  to  read  in  a 
drawling,  nasal  tone.'] "  Imprimis  :  Whereas  my  neph- 
ew, Francis  Millington,  by  his  disobedience  and  ungrateful 
conduct,  has  shown  himself  unworthy  of  my  bounty,  and 
incapable  of  managing  my  large  estate,  I  do  hereby  give 
and  bequeath  all  my  houses,  farms,  stocks,  bonds,  moneys, 
and  property,  both  personal  and  real,  to  my  dear  cousins, 
(Samuel  Swipes,  of  Malt- Street,  brewer,  and  Christopher 
Ourrie,  of  Fly-Court,  saddler," — 
\_The  Squire  takes  off  his  spectacles  to  wipe  them.'] 

Swipes.  [  Taking  out  his  handkerchief,  and  attempting  to 
snivel.]  Generous  creature  !  kind  soul !  I  always  loved 
ner. 

Currie.  She  was  always  a  good  friend  to  me,  and  she 
must  have  had  her  senses  perfectly,  as  the  Squire  says. 
And  now,  brother  Swipes,  when  we  divide,  I  think  I  shall 
take  the  mansion  house. 

Swipes.  Not  so  fast,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Currie.  My 
wife  nas  long  had  her  eye  upon  that,  and  must  have  ic. 
[_Both  rise.] 

Currie.  '  There  will  be  two  words  to  that  bargain,  Mr. 
Swipes.  And,  besides,  I  ought  to  have  the  first  choice. 
Did  I  not  lend  her  a  new  chaise  every  time  she  wished  to 
ride  ?  and  wiio  knows  what  influence 

Swipes.  Am  I  not  first  named  in  her  will?  and  did  I 
not  furnish  her  with  my  best  small  beer,  gratis,  for  more 
than  six  months  r   and  who  knows 

Frank.     Gentiemen,  I  must  leave  you.     \_Going.  J 

Squire.  \_After  leisurely  wiping  his  spectacles,  he  again 
puts  them  on,  ana,  with  his  calm  nasal  twang,  calls  out,] 
Pray,  gentiemen,  keep  your  seats.  I  have  not  done  yet. 
[_All  sit.]  Let  me  see  —  where  was  I }  Ay,  [^reads].  "  all 
my  property,  both    personal   and   real,  to  my  dear  cousins, 

Samuel  Swipes,  of  Malt-Street,  brewer," {looking  over 

his  spectacles  at  Swipes) 

Swipes.     {Eagerly)     Yes ! 


297 

Squire.  "And  Christoplier  Ourrie,  of  Fly-Court,  sad- 
dler,"  {looking  over  his  spectacles  at  him) 

Currie.     {Eagerly.)     Yes  !  yes  ! 

Squire.  "  To  have  and  to  hold  —  IN  TRUST  —  for  the 
sole  and  exclusive  benefit  of  my  nephew,  Francis  Milling- 
ten,  until  he  shall  have  attained  to  lawful  age,  by  which 
time  I  hope  he  will  have  so  far  reformed  his  evil  habits, 
that  he  may  safely  be  entrusted  with  the  large  fortune 
which  I  hereby  bequeath  to  him." 

Swipes.  What's  all  this  ?  You  don't  mean  that  we  are 
humbugged  ?  In  trust !  How  does  that  appear  ?  Where 
is  it  r 

Squire.  {Pointing  to  the  parchment.)  There  —  in  two 
words  of  as  good  old  English  as  I  ever  penned. 

Currie,  Pretty  well,  too,  Mr.  Squire  !  if  we  must  be 
sent  for  to  be  made  a  laughing-stock  of.  She  shall  pay  for 
every  ride  she  had  out  of  my  chaise,  I  promise  you. 

Swipes,  '  And  for  every  drop  of  my  beer.  Fine  times  I 
if  two  sober,  hard-working  citizens  are  to  be  brought  here, 
to  be  made  the  sport  of  a  graceless  profligate.  But  we 
will  manage  his  property  for  him,  Mr.  Currie  ;  we  will  make 
him  feel  that  trustees  are  not  to  be  trifled  with. 

Currie.     That  will  we. 

Squire.  Not  so  fast,  gentlemen  ;  for  the  instrument  is 
dated  three  years  ago,  and  the  young  gentleman  must  al- 
ready be  of  age,  and  able  to  take  care  of  himself.  Is  it 
not  so,  Francis  ? 

Frank.     It  is,  your  worship. 

Squire.  Then,  gentlemen,  having  attended  the  breaking 
of  this  seal,  according  to  law,  you  are  released  from  any 
farther  trouble  in  the  premises. 


298 


CXIIL     THE  HAUNCH  OF  MUTTON. 

BIB.  PETER  PUMPKIN,  a  jolly  squire  ;  billy  blewett,  his 
friend  ;  henry,  his  nephew. 

\_Sir  Peter  present.  —  Enter  Billy.'] 

Sir  Peter.  Good  day,  Mr.  Blewett.  As  you  sent  me 
tha  haunch,  it  is  but  fair  that  you  should  see  how  it  is 
treated.  —  Rather  late,  though.  {Enter  Henry.)  I  shouldn't 
have  waited  for  you,  Harry. 

Harry.  No  occasion,  sir ;  I  am  always  punctual.  Lord 
Bacon  says,  the  time  a  man  makes  a  company  wait  is  always 
spent  in  discovering  his  faults. 

Sir  Peter »  Does  he  ?  Then  he's  a  sensible  fellow  ;  and, 
if  he's  a  friend  of  yours,  you  might  have  brought  him  to 
dinner  with  you.  But  you  need  not  have  made  yourself 
such  a  dandy,  Harry,  merely  to  dine  with  me. 

Harry.  Why,  sir,  as  I  expected  the  dinner  to  be  well 
dressed  for  me,  I  thought  I  could  not  do  less  than  return 
the  compliment. 

Sir  Peter.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Do  you  hear  that,  Billy  ?  Not 
a  bad  one,  was  it .''  Faith,  Harry  does  not  go  to  college 
for  nothing.  Hark!  there's  the  clock  striking  five  —  and 
where  is  our  haunch  of  mutton  }  Do,  pray,  Harry,  see 
about  it.  The  cook  used  to  be  punctual  —  and  it  is  now  a 
minute  and  a  half  past  five.  {Holding  his  watch  in  his 
hand.) 

Harry.     It  is  coming,  sir. 

Sir  Peter.  Clever  fellow,  King  Charles;  they  called 
him  the  mutton-eating  king,  didn't  they  ?  Cut  off  his 
head,  though,  for  all  that ;  —  stopped  his  mutton-eating,  I 
guess !     I  say,  Billy,  did   I   tell  you   what  I  said,  t'other 

day,  to  Tommy  Day,  the  broker  r Two  minutes  gone  ! 

Tommy's  a  Bristol  man,  you  know.  Well,  I  went  down 
CO  Bristol,  about  our  ship,  the  Fanny,  that  got  ashore 
there.  So,  says  Tommy  to  me,  when  I  came  back,  "  Who 
bears  the  bell  now  at  Bristol }  "  "  Why,"  &ays  I,  "  the 
bell-man,  to  be  sure."      Ha,  ha,  ha!     "Who  bears  the  bell 


299 

at  Bristol  ?  "  says  he.     "  Why,  the  bell-man,"  says  lagain. 
Ha,  ha,  ha!     Capital,  wasn't  it: 

Billy.     Capital  !  capital ! 

Harry.  By  the  bye,  sir,  did  you  ever  hear  Shakspeare's 
receipt  for  dressing  a  beefsteak  ? 

Sir  Peter.     Shakspeare's  ?     No,  what  was  it  ? 

Harry.  Why,  sir,  he  puts  it  into  the  mouth  of  Mac- 
beth, when  he  makes  him  exclaim,  "  If  it  were  done.,  when 
'tis  done,  then  it  were  well  it  were  done  quickly." 

iS'ir  Fef.er.  Good !  good !  But  I  said  a  better  thing 
than  Shakspeare,  last  week.  You  know  Jack  Porter,  the 
comraon-council-man  —  ^gly  as  a  horse! — gives  famous 
wine,  though.  So,  says  I,  "  Jack,  I  never  see  your  face 
without  thinking  of  a  good  dinner."  "  Why  so  ?  "  says 
Jack.  "  Because,"  says  I,  "it's  always  ordinary  f  ^^  Ha, 
ha,  ha  !  —  "  Why  so  ?  "  says  Jack.  "  Because,  "  says  I, 
"it's  always  ordinary  !  "     Ha,  ha,  ha  !  ah,  ha,  ha  ! 

Billy.     Capital  !  capital  ! 

Sir  Peter.  {Still  looking  at  his  watch.)  Three  minutes, 
at  least !  The  best  side  of  the  haunch  should  have  been 
gone  before  this. 

Harry.  That  I  beg  leave  to  deny  ;  for  the  best  side  is 
where  there  remains  most  to  be  got. 

Sir  Peter.  Why,  Billy,  you  seem  as  down  in  the  mouth 
as  the  root  of  my  tongue.  But  —  four  minutes,  by  my  re- 
peater ! Harry,  did  you  hear  of  the  conundrum  I  made 

when  Bill  Sinister  told  me  how  he  lost  all   his  ships,  one 
after  another  ? 

Harry.     Conundrum  ?  No,  sir.     Pray,  let's  have  it. 

Sir  Peter.  "  Bill,"  says  I,  "  can  you  tell  me  why  your 
misfortunes  are  like  infants  ?  "  "  Not  because  they  are 
small."  says  Bill.  —  "  Will  you  give  it  up  ?  "  says  I.  "  I 
guess  I  must,"  says  he.  —  "  Because  they  don't  go  alo7ie  .'" 
says  I.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  ah,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  —  "  Because  they 
don't  go  alone!''  says  I.  Ah,  ha,  ha!  ah,  ha, /ha,  ha! 
{Holding  his  hands  on  his  sides.)  Wasn't  that  capita], 
hey  ? 

Harry  and  Billy.     Capital  I  capital  !  capital ! 

Sir  Peter.  It  got  into  the  papers  next  day.  Five  min- 
utes, and There  goes  the  haunch  !  Follow  me,  gen- 
tlemen —  follow  me. 


300 


CXIV.  I'LL  TRY;  or  THE  YANKEE 
MARKSMAN. 

ionD  PERCY,  with  Hs  regiment,  firing  at  a  target  on  Bos- 
ton Common. 
JONATHAN,   an  awkward  looking   country  boy,   that  had 
j  outgrown  his  jacket  and  trowsers. 

Percy.  Now,  my  boys,  for  a  trial  of  your  skill !  Imag- 
ine the  mark  to  be  a  Yankee  ;  and  here  is  a  guinea  for  who- 
ever hits  his  heart. 

(Jonathan  draws  near  to  see  the  trial ;  and  when  the  first 
soldier  fires y  and  misses,  he  slaps  his  hand  on  his  thigh,  and 
laughs  immoderately.  Lord  Percy  notices  him.  When  the 
secohd  soldier  fires,  arid  misses,  Jonathan  throws  up  his  old 
hat,  and  laughs  again.) 

Percy.     i^Very  crossly.)     Why  do  you  laugh,  fellow? 

Jonathan.  To  think  how  safe  the  Yankees  are,  if  you 
must  know. 

Percy.     Why,  do  you  think  you  could  shoot  better  ? 

Jonathan.     I  don't  know  ;   I  could  try. 

Percy.  Give  him  a  gun,  soldier,  and  you  may  return  the 
fellow's  laugh. 

Jonathan.  ( Takes  the  gun,  and  looks  at  every  part  of  it 
carefully,  and  then  says,)  It  wont  bust,  will  it  ?  Father's 
gun  don't  shine  like  this,  but  I  guess  it's  a  better  gun. 

Percy.     Why  ?     Why  do  you  guess  so  ? 

Jonathan.  'Cause  I  know  what  that'll  deu,  and  I  have 
some  deoubts  about  this-ere.  But  look  o'  here  !  You 
called  that- air  mark  a  Yankee ;  and  1  won't  fire  at  a  Yan- 
kee. 

Percy.  Well,  call  it  a  British  regular,  if  you  please  ; 
only  firCe 

Jonathan.  Well,  a  reg'lar  it  is,  then.  Now  for  free- 
dom, as  father  says.  {He  raises  the  gun,  and  fires.)  There, 
I  guess  that-air  red  coat  has  got  a  hole  in  it !  (  Turning  to 
the  soldiers.)  Why  don't  you  laugh  at  me  now  as  that-aii 
f(3llow  said  you  might.     {Pointing  to  Percy.) 


301 

Percy.  You  awkward  rascal,  that  was  an  accident.  Dt 
you  think  you  could  hit  the  mark  again  ? 

Jonathan.     He  !  I  don't*know ;  I  can  try. 

Percy.  Give  him  another  gun,  soldiers  ;  and  take  care 
that  the  clown  does  not  shoot  you.  I  should  not  fear  to 
stand  before  the  mark  myself. 

Jonathan.     I  guess  you'd  better  not. 

Percy.     Why  ?     Do  you  think  you  could  hit  me  ? 

Jonathan.     I  don't  know  ;  I  could  try. 

Percy.     Fire  away,  then.' 

{Jonathan fires  and  again  hits  the  mark.)  ^ 

Jonathan.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  How  father  would  laugh  to 
see  me  shooting  at  half  gun-shot ! 

Percy.  Why,  you  rascal,  you  don't  think  you  could  hit 
the  mark  at  twice  that  distance  ? 

Jonathan.     He  I  I  don't  know  ;  I'm  not  afeard  to  try. 

Percy.  Give  him  another  gun,  soldiers,  and  place  the 
mark  farther  off. 

{Jonathan fires  again  and  hits  as  before.) 

Jonathan.  There,  I  guess  that-air  reg'lar  is  as  dead  as 
the  pirate  that  father  says  the  judge  hangs  till  he  is  dead, 
dead,  dead,  three  times  dead ;  and  that  is  one  more  death 
than  Scripter  tells  on. 

Percy.     There,  fellow,  is  a  guinea  for  you. 

Jonathan.     Is  it  a  good  one?     {Ringing  it.) 

Percy.     Good  ?     Yes.     Now  begone ! 

Jonathan.  I  should  like  to  stay,  and  see  them  fellows 
kill  some  more  Yankees. 

Percy ^  {aside.)  The  fellow  is  more  rogue  than  fool. 
(  To  Jonathan)     Sirrah,  what  is  your  name  ? 

Jonathan.     Jonathan. 

Percy.     Jonathan  what? 

Jonathan.  Yes,  Jonathan  Wot.  I  was  named  arter 
father. 

Percy.  Do  you  tlink  your  father  can  shoot  as  well  as 
you  do  ? 

Jonathnn.  I  don't  know  but  I  guess  he  would  not  be 
afeard  to  try. 

Percy.     Where  did  you  learn  to  shoot? 

Jonothan.  O,  father  larnt  me,  when  I  wasn't  knee  high 
to  a  woodchuck. 


B02 

Percy.     Why  did  lie  teach  you  so  young  ? 

Jonathan.  'Cause,  he  said  .^might  have  to  shoot  red- 
coats, one  of  these  days. 

Percy.  Ah !  pray,  my  boy,  can  all  the  farmers  in  your 
own  shoot  as  well  as  you  do  ? 

Jonathan.     I  guess  they  can,  and  better  teu. 

Percy,  Would  they  like  to  shoot  at  red-coats,  as  you 
;all  them? 

Jonathan,     I've  heerd  them  say  they'd  like  to  try. 

Percy.  Come,  my  good  fellow,  while  you  are  well  off, 
fou  had  better  join  us,  and  fight  for  your  king;  for  we 
ihall  hang  every  Yankee  we  catch. 

Jonathan.     I  guess  you  wont  ketch  any. 

Percy.  Well,  we  can  try,  as  you  say ;  and,  since  we 
have  caught  y-ou,  we  will  hang  you  for  a  traitor. 

Jonathan.  No  you  wont.  You  paid  me  yourself  for 
killing  them  three  red-coats  ;  so  I  guess  you  wont  hang 
me  for  that. 

Percy.  No,  my  good  fellow,  I  like  you  too  well.  I  am 
sorry  that  my  duty  to  my  king  obliges  me  to  injure  men 
who  show  in  every  thought  and  action  that  they  are  true 
Englishmen.  You  may  go  free  ;  but  the  next  time  you 
see  my  troops  firing  at  a  mark  for  exercise,  you  must  not 
be  so  uncivil  as  to  laugh  at  them,  if  they  miss.  What  say 
you? 

Jonathan.     I  don't  know  whether  I  can  help  it. 

Percy.     Well,  you  can  try,  can't  you  ? 

Jonathan.  I  'spose  I  can ;  for  Deacon  Simple  tried  to 
milk  his  geese,  but  his  wife  didn't  make  no  more  butter  for 
his  trying,  I  guess. 

Percy.  Begone  !  or  I  shall  have  to  put  you  under  guard. 
Officer,  give  him  a  pass  to  Charlestown  ;  but  never  let  him 
come  among  our  troops  again.     His  example  is  a  bad  one. 


-303 


CXV.     THE  FEMALE  EXQUISITES. 

MRS.  KERSEY. 

BECKY,  her  Daughter. 
KATY,  her  Niece. 
MADGE,  the  Servant  Girl. 

Mrs  Kersey.  Tell  me  what  you  have  done  to  the  gen- 
tlemen who  have  just  left  the  house  in  such  a  rage  ?  Did 
I  not  request  you  to  receive  them  as  your  destined  hus- 
bands ? 

Becky.  How  could  we  t^sat  them  civilly,  mother,  when 
they  oiFered  themselves  at  d\Q  first  visit  ? 

Mrs.  Kersey.  And  what  was  there  improper  in  that  ?  1 
told  them  to  do  so. 

Becky.  O,  horrible  !  If  the  afi'air  were  managed  in  this 
vulgar  manner,  a  romance  would  soon  have  an  end. 

Katy.  Aunt,  my  cousin  is  perfectly  right.  How  can 
one  receive  people  entirely  unacquainted  with  the  delicacies 
of  gallantry  ? 

Becky.  Does  not  their  whole  appearance  indicate  this  ? 
Come  to  make  a  formal  visit,  and  expect  to  be  admitted  the 
first  time ! 

Katy.  And  then,  to  wear  a  plain  coat  without  braids, 
and  hands  without  gloves !  Besides,  I  noticed  that  their 
boots  were  not  in  the  newest  style 

Becky.     And  their  pants  were  full  an  inch  too  long. 

Mrs.  Kersey.  You  are  both  crazy ;  —  Katy,  and  you, 
Becky 

Becky.  O,  for  goodness'  sake,  mother,  do  leave  off  call- 
ing us  by  those  outlandish  names ! 

Mrs.  Kersey.  Outlandish  names,  miss !  are  they  not 
your  true  and  proper  Christian  names  ? 

Becky.  Heavens  !  how  vulgar !  What  astonishes  me 
is,  that  you  should  ever  have  had  so  intellectual  a  daughter 
as  myself.  Who  ever  heard  of  Becky  or  Katy  in  refined 
conversation?  and  either  name  would  be  enough  to  blast 
the  finest  romance  that  ever  was  written. 

Katy.     It  is  true,  aunt ;  for  it  is  distressing  to  an  ear  of 


304  "  fowle's  hundred  dialogues. 

any  delicacy  to  hear  such  names  pronounced.  And  the 
name  of  Seraphina  Cherubina,  which  my  cousin  has  adopted, 
and  that  of  Celestina  Azurelia,  which  I  have  bestowed  upon 
myself  have  a  grace  that  even  you  must  perceive. 

Mrs.  Kersey.  Hear  me  —  I  have  but  one  word  to  say. 
I  will  hear  of  no  other  names  than  were  given  you  by  your 
godfathers  and  godmothers ;  and  as  to  the  gentlemen,  I 
know  their  worth,  and  am  resolved  that  you  shall  marry 
them.     I  am  tired  of  having  you  upon  my  hands. 

Becky.  Allow  us  to  breath  awhile  among  the  fashiona- 
bles of  the  city,  where  we  have  hardly  arrived.  Give  us 
time  to  weave  the  web  of  our  romance,  and  do  not  hasten 
the  catastrophe  of  our  being  with  such  unrefined  precipita- 
tion. 

Mrs.  Kersey.  You  are  a  finished  pair  of  fools,  and  shall 
be  married  or  go  to  the  mad-house  immediately  !  {She 
goes  out.) 

Katy.  Mercy  on  us  !  how  completely  material  your 
mother  is  !  How  dull  her  understanding,  and  how  dark 
her  soul  ! 

Becky.     I  can. hardly  persuade  myself  that  I   am  really 
her  daughter,  and  I  am  satisfied  that  some  adventure  will 
hereafter  develope  a  more  illustrious  parentage. 
{Enter  Madge.) 
Madge.     There  is  a  man  below,  who  says  his  lady  wishes 
to  speak  with  you. 

Becky.     Dolt !     Can  you  not  deliver  a  message  with  less 
vulgarity  ?     You  should  say,  "  A  necessary  evil  wishes  to 
be  informed  whether  it  is  your  pleasure  to  be  accessible." 
Madge.     I  don't  understand  French,  ma'am. 
Becky.  .  Impertinent !     How  insupportable  !     And   who 
is  his  lady  ? 

Madge.     He  called  her  the  Marchioness  Quizilla. 
Becky,     {to   Katy.)     O,  my  dear,   a  marchioness !  —  a 
marchioness  !     It  is,  no  doubt,  some  intellectual  lady,  who 
has  heard  of  our  arrival.     Think   of  it  —  a  marchioness  ! 
my  dear. 

Katy.  Let  us  adjust  our  dress,  and  sustain  the  reputa- 
tion which  has  preceded  us.  (To  Madge.)  Run  and 
bring  us  the  counsellor  of  the  graces. 

Madge.     Gracious,  ma'am !  1  don't  know  what  sort  of  a 


305 

critter  that  is.  You  must  talk  Christian,  if  you  wish  me 
to  understand  you. 

Katy.  Bring  us  the  mirror,  then,  ignoramus  .''  and  t  .ke 
care  that  you  do  not  sully  the  glass  by  letting  your  ugly 
image  pass  before  it. 

{Madge  going  out,  meets  Mrs.  Kersey,  as  the  Marchioness, 
entering,  veiled.) 

Madge.     Ma'am,  these  are  my  mistresses. 

Marchioness.  Ladies,  you  will  be  surprised,  no  doubt, 
at  the  audacity  of  my  visit,  but  your  reputation  has  brought 
it  upon  you.  Merit  has  such  charms  for  me,  that  I  break 
down  all  barriers  to  get  at  it. 

Becky.  If  you  are  in  pursuit  of  merit,  you  must  not 
hunt  for  it  on  our  domain. 

Katy.  If  you  find  any  merit  here,  you,  must  have 
brought  it 

Becky.     Madge ! 

Madge.     Ma'am. 

Becky.  Approximate  hither  the  sedentary  aids  of  con- 
versational intercourse. 

Madge.     Ma'am  I 

Becky,     Bring  some  chairs,  dolt ! 

Katy.  (Affectedly.)  Come,  madam,  do  not  be  inexora- 
ble to  that  chair,  which  is  stretching  out  its  arms  to  em- 
brace you.      {The  marchioness  sits  most  affectedly.') 

Marchioness.  Well,  ladies,  what  do  yau  think  of  the 
city  ?     {Exit  Madge. 

Becky.  We  have  not  yet  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
its  ineffable  attractions. 

Marchioness.  Leave  that  to  me.  Hearing  of  your  ar- 
rival, I  have  come  to  do  you  the  homage  of  presenting  you 
an  impromptu  that  I  made  upon  myself  yesterday.  I  am 
unequalled  in  impromptus. 

Katy.     An  impromptu  is  the  touchstone  of  wit. 

Marchioness.     Listen,  then. 

Katy  and  Becky.     We  are  all  attention. 

Marchioness.  You  will  understand  that  I  suppose  a 
gentleman  to  make  the  verses  upon  receiving  a  glance  from 
my  eyes. 

Katy  and  Becky.     What  an  ingenious  device. 


306  fowle's  hundred  D1AL0GUE&'. 

Marchioness.     Listen  :  —     (  With  much  affectation, ) 
•*  Ah,  ah  !  suspicionless  of  smart, 

And  seeking  in  your  charms  relief, 
Your  eye,  cataceous,  stole  my  heart. 
Stop  thief !  stop  thief !  stop  thief!    stop  thief  I  " 

Katy.     O,  heavens!  desist;  it  is  too  exquisite. 

Marchioness.  Did  you  notice  the  commencement  — 
"  All !  ah  !  "  There  is  something  fine  in  that  "  Ah  !  ah  !  " 
as  if  a  man  suddenly  thought  of  something  —  "  Ah,  ah  !  " 

Becky.     Yes,  I  think  the  "Ah,  ah  !  "  admirable. 

Katy.  I  should  rather  have  made  that  "  Ah,  ah  !  "  than 
Paradise  Lost. 

Marchiojiess.     You  have  the  true  taste,  I  see. 

Katy  and  Becky.     Our  taste  is  not  the  most  corrupt. 

Marchioness.  But  did  you  not  also  admire  "  suspicion- 
less  of  smart?  "  — innocent,  you  understand,  as  a  sheep  — 
not  aware  of  danger  ;  —  and  "  seeking  in  your  charms  re- 
lief,'" —  expecting,  you  understand,  that  I  should  smile  him 
into  life.  "  Your  eye,  cataceous  :  "  what  do  you  think  of 
the  word  cataceous  ?  was  it  not  well  chosen  ? 

Katy.     Perfectly  expressive. 

Becky.  Cataceous,  that  is,  slyly,  like  a  cat.  I  can  al- 
most see  the  feline  quadruped  watching  its  prey. 

Katy.  Nothing  could  be  more  superingeniously  con- 
ceived. 

Marchioness.  "  Stole  my  heart  /  "  —  robbed  me  of  it  — 
carried  it  right  away.   "  Stop  thief !  stop  thief  I  stop  thief !  " 

Becky.     O,  stop  !  stop  !  — let  us  breathe. 

Marchioness.  Would  you  not  think  a  man  was  crying 
after  a  robber  to  arrest  him  ? 

Katy.     There  is  a  transcendental  spirituality  in  the  idea. 

Becky.     Do  repeat  the  "  Ah,  ah  I  " 

Marchioness.     "Ah,  ah  !  " 

Becky  and  Katy.     O  !  O  I 

Marchioness.     "  Suspicionless  of  smart. '^ 

Becky.     "  Suspicionless  of  smart."     {Looking  at  Katy.) 

Katy.     "  Suspicionless  of  smart."     (Looking  at  Becky.) 

Marchioness.     "  And  seeking  in  your  charms  relief^ 

Becky  and  Katy.     O  !   "In  your  charms  relief." 

Marchioness.     "  Your  eye,  cataceous." 

Becky.     "  Cataceous,"  —  0  J 


307 

Katy.     O  !  "  Cataceous." 

Marchioness.     "  Stole  my  hearC^ 

Becky.     Stole  his  heart. 

Katy.     Stole  his  heart !  O  !  I  faint ! 

Marchioness.     "  Stop  thief  f  stop  thief!  stop  thief!  " 

Becky.     O  !  "  Stop  thief!  stop  thief!  " 

Katy.     "  Stop  thief  !  stop  thief!  stop  thief !  " 

All  together.     "  Stop  thief!  stop  thief!  stop  thief!  " 
(Enter  Madge.) 

Madge.  Stop  thief !  What  is  the  matter  ?  Who  has 
been  robbed  ? 

Becky.  O,  how  your  material  presence  brings  us  to 
earth  again. 

{Mrs.  Kersey  uncovers  her  face.) 

Madge.  Why,  ma'am,  what  trick  are  you  playing  the 
young  ladies  ? 

Mrs.  Kersey.  I  am  only  teaching  the  silly  exquisites, 
that  some  folks  may  make  as  refined  fools  as  some  folks, 
and  that  affectation  is  not  learning.  (Affectedly.)  "  Ah, 
ah  !     Cataceous!     Stop  thief!  stop  trdef !  stop  thief  !^' 

Becky.     I  am  imperturbably  petrified. 

Katy.     And  I  indiscriminately  confounded. 

Mrs.  Kersey.  Becky  Seraphina  Cherubina,  and  Katy 
Celestina  Azurelia,  my  advice  to  you  is,  to  aim  at  nothing 
above  common  sense,  and  not  to  suspect  that  all  the  world 
are  fools,  because  you  happen  to  be  so. 


CXVI.      THE  GRIDIRON. 

THE  CAPTAIN,  PATRICK,  AND  THE  FBENCHMAN. 

Patrick.  Well,  captain,  whereabouts  in  the  wide  world 
are  we  ?     Is  it  Roosia,  Proosia,  or  the  Jarmant  oceant } 

Captain.     Tut,  you  fool ;  it's  France. 

Patrick.  Tare  an  ouns  ;  do  you  tell  me  so  ?  and  how  do 
you  know  it's  France,  captain  dear? 


308  FOWLE'S    HUNDRED    DIALOGUES. 

Captain.  Because  we  were  on  the  coast  of  the  Bay  of 
Biscay,  when  the  vessel  was  wrecked. 

Patrick.  Throth^  and  I  was  thinkin'  so  myself.  A.nd 
now,  captain  jewel,  it  is  I  that  wishes  we  had  a  gridiron. 

Captain.  Why,  Patrick,  what  puts  the  notion  of  a  grid- 
iron into  your  head  ? 

Patrick.  Because  I'm  starrving  with  hunger,  captain 
dear. 

Captain.  Surely  you  do  not  intend  to  eat  a  gridiron,  do 
you  ? 

Patrick.  Ate  a  gridiron  ^  bad  luck  to  it !  no.  But  if 
we  had  a  gridiron,  we  could  dress  a  beef-steak. 

Captain.     Yes  but  where's  the  beef-steak,  Patrick  ? 

Patrick.     Sure,  couldn't  we  cut  it  off  the  porrk  .^ 

Captain.  I  never  thought  of  that.  You  are  a  clever 
fellow,  Patrick.     {Laughing.) 

Patrick.  There's  many  a  thrue  word  said  in  joke,  cap- 
tain. And  now,  if  you  will  go  and  get  the  bit  of  porrk 
that  we  saved  from  the  rack,  I'll  go  to  the  house  there 
beyent,  and  ax  some  *of  them  to  lind  me  the  loan  of  a  grid- 
iron. 

Captain.  But  Patrick,  this  is  France,  and  they  are  all 
foreigners  here. 

Patrick.  Well,  and  how  do  you  know  but  I  am  as  good 
a  furriner  myself  as  any  of  'em  ? 

Captain.     What  do  you  mean,  Patrick  ? 

Patrick.     Parley  voo  frongsay  ? 

Captain.     O,  you  understand  French  then,  is  it  ? 

Patrick.     Throth  and  you  may  say  that.  Captain  dear. 

Captain.     Well,  Patrick,  success  to  you.      Be  civil  to  the 
foreigners,  and  I  will  be  back  with  the  pork  in  a  minute. 
(He  goes  out.) 

Patrick.  Ay,  sure  enough  I'll  be  civil  to  them ;  for  the 
Frinch  are  mighty  p'lite  intirely,  and  I'll  show  them  I  know 
what  good  manners  is.  Indade,  and  here  comes  munseer 
himself,  quite  convaynient.  {As  the  Frenchman  enters ^ 
Patrick  takes  off'  his  hat,  and  making  a  low  bow,  says,)  God 
save  you,  sir  and  all  your  childer.  I  beg  your  pardon  for 
th 3  liberty  I  take,  but  its  only  being  in  distress  in  regard 
of  ateing,  that  I  make  bowld  to  trouble  ye  ;  and  if  you 


309 

could  liiid  me  the  loan  of  a  gridiron,  I'd  be  intirely  ob- 
leeged  to  ye. 

Frenchman.     {Staring  at  him.)     Comment! 

Patrick,  Indade  it's  tbrue  for  you.  I'm  lathered  to 
paces,  and  God  knows  I  look  quare  enough  ;  but  it's  by 
raison  of  the  storm,  that  dhruv  us  ashore  jist  here,  and 
we're  all  starvin. 

Frenchman.     Je  m'y  t {Pronounced  zhu  meet.) 

Patrick.  O  !  not  at  all !  by  no  manes  !  we  have  plenty 
of  mate  ourselves,  and  we'll  dhress  it,  if  you'll  be  plazed 
jist  to  lind  us  the  loan  of  a  gridiron,  sir.  {Making  a  low 
bow. ) 

Frenchrtan.  (Staring  at  Mm,  hut  not  understanding  a 
word.  J 

Patrick.  I  beg  pardon,  sir ;  but  may  be  I'm  undher  a 
mistake,  I  thought  I  was  in  France,  sir.  An't  you  all 
furriners  here  ?     Parley  voo  frongsay  ? 

Frenchman.     Oui,  monsieur. 

Patrick.  Then,  would  you  lind  me  the  loan  of  a  grid- 
iron, if  you  plase  ?     { The  Frenchman  stares  more  than  ever, 

as  if  anxious  to  understand.) I   know  it's  a  liberty  I 

take,  sir  ;  but  it's  only  in  the  regard  of  bein'  cast  away  ; 
and  if  you  plase,  sir,  parley  voo  frongsay  ? 

Frenchman,     Oui,  monsieur,  oui. 

Patrick.  Then  would  you  lind  me  the  loan  of  a  grid- 
iron, sir,  and  you'll  obleege  me. 

Frenchman.     Monsieur,  pardon',  monsieur 

Patrick.  {Angrily.)  By  my  sowl,  if  it  was  you  in  dis- 
thress,  and  if  it  was  to  owld  Ireland  you  came,  it's  not  only 
the  gridiron  they'd  give  you,  if  you  axed  it,  but  somelhing 
to  put  on  it  too,  and  a  dhrop  of  dhrink  into  the  bargain. 
Can't  you  undherstand  your  own  language  ?  (  Very  Slowly. ) 
Parley  —  voo  —  frongsay  —  munseer  ? 

Frenchman.     Oui,  monsieur  ;  oui,  monsieur,  mais 

Patrick.  Thin  lind  me  the  loan  of  a  gridiron,  I  say, 
and  bad  scram  to  you. 

Frenchman.  {Bowing  and  scraping.)  Monsieur,  je  ne 
I'entend (Pro/zowwce^zhunulahn  tahn.) 

Patrick.  Phoo !  the  divil  sweep  yourself  and  your  long 
tongs  !  I  don't  want  a  tongs  at  all  at  all.  Can't  you  lis- 
ten to  rason  ? 


310 

Frenchfnan.      Raison    oui,  oui,  monsieur,  mais 

Patrick.  Then  lind  me  the  loan  of  a  gridiron  and  howld 
your  prate.  (The  Frenchman  shakes  his  head,  as  if  to  say 
he  did  not  understand  ;  but  Patrick  thinking  he  meant  it  as 
a  refusal,  says  in  a  passion,)  Bad  cess  to  the  likes  o'  you ! 
Throth,  if  you  were  in  my  counthry,  it's  not  that-a-way 
they'd  use  you.  The  curse  of  the  crows  on  you,  you  owld 
sinner!  The  divil  another  word  I'll  say  to  you.  (The 
Frenchman  puts  his  hand  on  his  heart  and  tries  to  express 
compassion  on  his  countenance.)  Well,  I'll  give  you  one 
chance  more,  you  owld  thafe  !  Are  you  a  Christhian  at  all 
at  all.'  Are  you  a  furriner  that  all  the  world  calls  so  p'lite. 
Bad  luck  to  you !  do  you  undherstand  your  mother  tongue. 
Parley  voo  frongsay?  (Very  loud.)  Parley  voo  frong- 
say  ? 

Frenchman.     Oui,  monsieur,  oui,  oui. 

Patrick.  Then,  thunder  and  turf !  will  you  lind  me  the 
loan  of  a  gridiron?  (The  Frenchman  shakes  his  head,  as 
if  he  did  not  understand ;  and  Pat  says,  vehemently,)  The 
curse  of  the  hungry  be  on  you,  you  owld  negarly  villain ; 
the  back  of  my  hand  and  the  sowl  of  my  fut  to  you  !  May 
you  want  a  gridiron  yourself,  yet ;  and  wherever  I  go,  it's 
high  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  shall  hear  of  it  and  be  hanged 
to  you. 


CXYII.      THE  LETTER. 

SQUIRE  EGAN,  and  his  new  Irish  servant,  andy. 

Squire.  Well,  Andy  ;  you  went  to  the  post-office,  as  I 
ordered  you? 

Andy.     Yis,  sir. 

S.     Well,  what  did  you  find  ? 

A.     A  most  imperthinent  fellow,  indade,  sir. 

5.     How  so  ? 

A.  Says  I,  as  dacent  like  as  a  genthleman,  "  I  want  a 
letther,  sir,  if  you  plase."     "  Who  do  you  want  it  for  ?  " 


FOWLe's    hundred    DlALOCiUES.  311 

said  the  posth-masther  as  ye  call  him.  "  I  want  a  letther 
sir,  if  you  plase,  said  I,  "  And  whom  do  you  want  it  for  ?  " 
said  he  again.     '*  And  Avhat's  that  to  you?"   said  I. 

S.     You  blockhead,  what  did  he  say  to  that  r 

A.  He  laughed  at  me,  sir,  and  said  he  could  not  tell 
what  letther  to  give  me  unless  I  tould  him  the  direction. 

S.     Well,  you  told  him  then,  did  you  ? 

A.  "  The  directions  I  got,"  said  I,  "was  to  get  a  let- 
ther here  —  that's  the  directions."  "  Who  gave  you  the 
directions  ?  "  says  he.  "  The  masther,"  said  I.  "  And 
who's  your  masther  ?  "  said  he.  "  What  consarn  is  that  o' 
your's  ?"  said  I. 

S.     Did  he  break  your  head,  then  ? 

A.  No,  sir.  "  Why,  you  stupid  rascal,"  said  he,  "  if 
you  don't  tell  me  his  name,  how  can  I  give  you  his  let- 
ther ?  "  "  You  could  give  it  if  you  liked,  said  I ;  "  only 
you  are  fond  of  axing  impident  questions,  becase  you  think 
I'm  simple."  "  Get  out  o'  this  ;  "  said  he.  "  Your  mas- 
ther must  be  as  great  a  goose  as  yourself,  to  send  such  a 
missinger." 

S.     Well,  how  did  you  save  my  honor,  Andy  ? 

A.  "Bad  luck  to  your  impidence ; "  said  I.  "Is  it 
Squire  Egan  you  dare  to  say  goose  to  ?"  "  O,  Squire 
Egan's  your  masther  ?  "  said  he.  "  Yis,"  says  I.  "  Have 
you  any  thing  to  say  agin  it  ?  " 

6*.     You  got  the  letter,  then,  did  you  ?  " 

A.  "  Here's  a  letter  for  the  squire."  says  he.  "You 
are  to  pay  me  eleven  pence  posthage."  "  What  'ud  I  pay 
'leven  pence  for  ?  "  said  I.  "  For  posthage,^^  says  he. 
"  Didn't  I  see  you  give  that  gentleman  a  letther  for  four- 
pence,  this  blessed  minit  ?  "  said  I  ;  "  and  a  bigger  letther 
than  this  ?  Do  you  think  I'm  a  foo-l  ?  "  says  I.  "  Here's 
a  fourpence  for  you —  and  give  me  the  letther." 

S.  I  wonder  he  did  not  break  your  skull,  and  let  some 
light  into  it. 

A.  "Go  along,  you  stupid  thafe  !  "  says  he,  because  I 
would  not  let  him  cJiate  your  honor. 

S.     Well,  well ;  give  me  the  letter. 

A.     I  haven't  it,  sir.     He  wouldn't  give  it  to  me,  sir 

S.      Who  wouldn't  give  it  to  you  ? 

A.     That  old  chate  beyent  in  the  town. 


312  fovvlk's  hundred  dialogues. 

S.     Didn't  you  pay  him  what  he  asked  ? 

A.  Arrah,  sir,  why  would  I  let  you  be  chated,  when  he 
was  selling  them  before  my  face  for  fourpence  apace  ? 

S.     Go  back  you  scoundrel,  or  111  horsewhip  you  ? 

A.  He'll  murther  me,  if  I  say  another  word  to  him 
about  the  letther  ;  he  swore  he  would. 

»S.  I'll  do  it,  if  he  don't,  if  you  are  not  back  in  less 
than  half  an  hour.  (Exit.) 

A,  O  that  the  like  of  me  should  be  murthered  for  de- 
fending the  charrack'ther  of  my  masther !  It's  not  I'll  go 
to  dale  with  that  bloody  chate  again.  I'll  off  to  Dublin, 
and  let  the  letter  rot  on  his  dirty  hands,  bad  luck  to  him  1 


VHB   SUD. 


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YB  36886 


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